The Worst of All Possible Worlds: A Tywin Lannister Self-Insert
by admiralakbar1
Summary: "After careful consideration, I've arrived at two conclusions on the nature of my existence: 1. There is a God. 2. He is laughing uncontrollably." A random college student gets dumped into the body of Tywin Lannister on the eve of House Reyne's demise. He may be able to survive the coming battles, but whether he'll be able to navigate what follows is another matter entirely.
1. One: When Things go Bump in the Night

"So... that's it?"

"Yep."

I groaned as the lights slowly flicked back on in the dorm's lounge, watching the throng of people slowly make their way toward the doors. I mean, I wouldn't say I was surprised by the fight's results, it's just that I was hoping for an upset. There's no fun in rooting for the safe choice, you know? Besides, I'm pretty sure I was obligated to root for McGregor on account of being a proud half-a-dozen-generations-removed-from-the-homeland Oirish-American.

"I mean, he's still standing, though. Did he indicate he wanted to tap out or something?"

"Nope. It was a TKO, the ref called it."

"And I assume the T stands for 'technical'?"

"Yep."

"Oh," I replied a bit dejectedly, "okay then." Ten rounds was pretty impressive for McGregor's debut boxing match against who is arguably one of the greatest champions in boxing history, but I was thinking he'd either go down early or end up winning the whole thing. Or at least last all twelve rounds. I mean, he was holding his own pretty well and was tied for the first five.

With a slight spasm of protest from my sore knees, I peeled myself off the couch and started the long trek back to the comforts of my dorm and the sweet release of sleep. Occasionally, I'd stop focusing on the mission at hand to say hello to a familiar face I'd spot in the crowd. A fair majority of them were rooting for Mayweather, but a surprising amount of them vocally supported McGregor. I'd have trouble cheering on a boxer who practices his technique on his exes, misplaced Irish diaspora nationalism aside.

One walk down half the hallway and a flight of stairs later (five miles and three hours in college student time), I arrived at the particle board door of salvation. Fuck, I dropped my keys. After a moment of awkward fumbling and a silent prayer that nobody noticed, I at last pushed open the door and silently shut it behind me. Tim was already laying on top of his bed, his eyes reflecting the blue-white glare of his phone. Probably browsing iFunny or some other shit-tier meme site, one that didn't offer the enlightenment of a historical discussion forum.

Oh Jesus, that was an actual thought I had. I don't know whether to laugh or feel ashamed about myself.

A few brief minutes later, I was snug and secure beneath a set of sheets that I should seriously consider changing out sometime soon. As my eyes slowly shut, I glanced over to the poster of the Seven Kingdoms that adorned the wall just above my cluttered desk. Oh yeah, the season finale was tomorrow night! GET _HYPE_. I wonder if someone's gonna put it up on the TV in the lounge again tomorrow night?

At last, I managed to expel all thoughts of boatsex and Cleganebowl ( _HYPEHYPEHYPEHYPEHYPE_ ) from my head, firmly shut my eyes, and let the soothing embrace of sleep pass over and envelop me.

_

I jolted awake as my entire body flinched, my hand reflexively snapping to the back of my head. Jesus, I have a splitting he- wait, it's gone now. Weird. Maybe it's like one of those things where you have that weird falling sensation right as you're about to fall asleep?

I tried to close my eyes, when I noticed something odd. Was the ceiling... higher? And since when do ceilings flutter in the breeze?

My eyes shot open. This wasn't my dorm at all! I was in some kind of... tent? Yeah, a tent. Had I gone to some sort of outdoor party last night and blacked out? I mean, I did some crazy shit when I visited some friends in Milwaukee and they brought me along to Summerfest, but I never did anything to the point of actually losing consciousness. Oh Jesus, maybe I was roofied or something.

There had to be some other reason. Maybe I sleepwalked. But then again, how the fuck could I have sleepwalked out of a bed that's four feet off the ground, out of the dorm, down the hallway, out the door, and into a random tent with literally nobody noticing?! And it sure as shit didn't feel like the weather I'd expect from a New England fall.

This has to be some sort of fever dream. Maybe I contracted some rare illness that had incubated overnight and my brain is oozing out of my ears. Maybe I fell out of bed and cracked my skull, and these are the last neural misfirings of my brain before it shuts down for good. Maybe someone spiked the water by my bed and I'm having the most detailed and mundane trip of my life. Or maybe I'm just having a nervous breakdown and hallucinating all this, who knows.

I groggily pulled myself into an upright position and began rubbing the crust from my eyes. I don't know how it was physically possible, but I was lying on a mattress that was actually shittier than the ones in the dorm. I brought my hands down and-

 _What._

The hair on my arms is blond.

Why is the hair on my arms blond?

I threw off the sheets and got a look at myself. On one hand, where the fuck is my shirt? On the other, holy shit, I'm actually in shape. And the rest of my body hair's blond too. How the- why- WHAT THE FUCK.

I need a mirror.

Or any reflective surface.

I found a polished silver plate on a little nightstand a moment later. It'll do.

Oh Jesus, my face is different too. Eyes, hair, nose, cheeks, ears, chin, all of it is alien to me. At least I'm handsome now, but that's hardly a concern at the moment considering that I just got body-swapped or some voodoo shit.

The moment I made eye contact with my reflection, it's like something unlocked in my brain. A veritable tidal wave of memories came rushing into my mind, bouncing around before I could sort them into something vaguely chronological. Friends, family, love, hatred (Jesus, that's a lot of hatred), red and gold lions circling each other, all of it connected to a single name. A name that I really didn't want to have.

Tywin Lannister, heir to the Westerlands.

 _ **FUCK.**_


	2. Two: Come Hell

After careful consideration, I've arrived at two conclusions on the nature of my existence:

1\. There is a God.

2\. He is laughing uncontrollably.

I mean seriously, what the hell did I do to deserve this? I was a good Catholic (mostly), I went to church on Sundays (mostly), I didn't eat meat on Fridays during Lent (mostly)! Is God a Protestant or Mormon or Jewish and this is my punishment for apostasy? Is George R.R. Martin actually Satan and is this Hell? Maybe the Hindus were right and I got reincarnated in some alternate dimension? I don't fucking know.

Okay, breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. You can do this. You've handled plenty of shit before, you can handle this just fine. It's not like you were MAGICALLY PUT IN THE BODY OF A FANTASY WAR CRIMINAL OR ANYTHING.

No, I can totally handle this. Yeah, I'll be fine. I just need to keep my cool, don't let on that anything out of the ordinary is-

"Pardon, milord."

"EeeAAGH!" Jesus Christ, I'm jumpy as hell. Pull it together, dude, you can't have your own friggin' page thinking you're more psycho than Aerys. That's how all the rumors start. "Apologies..." Shit, what's his name?

 _Pate._

Thank you, Tywin's memories.

"Apologies, Pate. It was, er, night terrors. Couldn't get a wink of sleep, I feel a bit on edge this morning." Holy shit, I even have the English accent and all.

"The other lords are convening to discuss strategies for the siege at the command tent in an hour's turn and request your presence, milord." With that, the page curtly bowed and bolted out of the tent.

That's when I realized that neither of us been speaking English. If people say that German is a harsh-sounding language, I'd love to make them hear Andal. It sounded like someone threw Old English and Dutch in a blender, liberally mixed in some Basque, made everyone use that phlegmy _kkhh_ sound in Hebrew, and garnished it with some loanwords from a Greek stroke victim.

I had taken Spanish classes in high school, and I was decent at it, but I was helpless in any conversation that lasted longer than two minutes. Yet here I was, conversing and _kkhh_ ing like I had been speaking this linguistic monstrosity my entire life (though technically, my body had). I didn't even need to mentally translate between the languages, I just needed to speak.

Holy shit, is this what being bilingual is like? This is awesome.

Great, that means I can keep notes in English without being snooped on. Okay, there's a stack of paper - parchment? whatever - now I just need a pen. Pen, pen, pen, pen, pen...

 _Quill._

Right, a quill. Quill, quill, quill, quill, quill... here! Thank God/Yahweh/Vishnu/Hong Xiuquan/whoever's up there that Tywin is such a neat freak.

Okay, time to start taking some notes:

 _Things I need to invent so life here sucks less:_

 _\- Jethro Tull's seed drill. Little plow makes divot in dirt, spinny thing deposits seed, gets covered up at the back. Powered by movement of wheels, pulled by an ox._

 _\- Crop rotation. Four crops, rotated every year: wheat, barley, turnips, clover(?). See if peanuts exist._

 _\- Make the Westerlands more self-sufficient (or less reliant on outside imports). Make local farming viable. Tariffs on Reach grain. Stop Essosi mercantilism, start producing manufactured goods locally. Cotton manufacturing (cotton gin: box + spiky wheel = profit). Buy & free skilled slaves from Free Cities to set up own industry?_

 _\- Printing press. Probably repurpose wine presses, just need movable type. Basic literacy for smallfolk = propaganda._

 _\- Concrete. Two parts water, one part sand, one part gravel, one part quicklime(?). Check with a maester to see if something similar exists and how common it is. Valyrians probably already did it._

 _- **HYGIENE**_ _. Regular hand-washing, soaps, bathing at least twice a week, don't shit where you sleep, sanitary food preparation. Commission microscopes from Myr, introduce basic germ theory to the Citadel. Dysentery sucks._

 _\- Banking. Investors pool money (or just have Lannisters fund it), give out loans WITH GUARANTEES OF COLLATERAL. Fractional reserves. Don't step on the Iron Bank's toes. Don't loan to the Crown or Lords Paramount (directly, at least). Faceless Men assassinations suck._

 _\- Begin gearing up for war. The Westerlands don't have a martial tradition? Create one. Pike squares, gunpowder (too risky?), volunteer standing army (pull trainers from Goldcloaks/sellswords?), conscription and reserves. I want to turn this country into Prussia, or at least Switzerland._

 _\- Faster communication. Towers communicating by semaphore/morse code? along shoreline - warn about ironborn attack._

 _\- Win the smallfolk. Basic declaration of human rights. Abolish corvee labor - institute sharecropping? Worked in that one fic. I have a demesne, I can trial-and-error this._

 _Things I need to do to keep the peace:_

 _\- Get in on the He-lord Aerys-hater's club. Only Steffon Baratheon and Jon Arryn are ruling, the rest of the 'older' LPs (Rickard, Mace, Doran, Hoster, me) aren't in power yet. Start reaching out now?_

 _\- Get advantageous marriages for me & brothers. Rickard Stark's sister Branda(?), Alerie Hightower (probably still a kid), Mace Tyrell has (will have?) younger sisters._

 _\- Marriages for my kids. Assume canon arrangements are occupied. That leaves Elbert Arryn, Stannis & Renly, Ned and/or Benjen Stark, Lysa & Edmure Tully, and Oberyn Martell. Anyone younger's probably gonna be butterflied away._

 _\- The Frey issue. Cull when prudent. Get Genna out of the marriage to Emmon (pray to God she hasn't had kids yet), remarry to someone who's useful._

 _- **CONTAIN** **AERYS**_ _. Pros of becoming Hand: can rein in his craziness, closer eye on him, marriage contract with kids who I can get far, far away from him, can encourage midwives to wash hands and minimize stillbirths. Cons of becoming Hand: I'm babysitting an incestuous murderous paranoid pyromaniac with delusions of grandeur, he might decide to make my sons join the Kingsguard, I might kickstart the rebellion early by saying the wrong thing._

 _\- Form a power bloc with like-minded lords (and not just asskissers trying to get on my good side). Is 'the young lions' too on-the-nose?_

 _\- White Walkers first appear ~298 AC. That gives me 40 years (give or take 5) before I have to start sending armies north. Send engineers to start refurbishing NW castles?_

 _\- Pray to every god there is that my inevitable kids aren't incestuous freaks._

 _\- Gregor Cleagane. Pros: strong, tall as fuck, skilled, obedient soldier. Cons: prone to violence and excessive cruelty when unsupervised. Get him under my wing ASAP, use him sparingly._

 _\- Contain the Ironborn. Support Quellon, try and eliminate Balon. Victarion is conservative, but malleable- see about having him as a ward. Don't bother to contain Euron, just kill him._

 _\- PEOPLE TO WATCH OUT FOR: Varys (convince my interest = realm interest), Olenna (befriend, convince I'm not hostile toward the Reach, acknowledge her son's idiocy), Baelish (KILL ON SIGHT - HE_ _ **WILL**_ _FUCK EVERYTHING UP), Doran (do NOT cross him), Euron Greyjoy (see above), Ramsay Bolton (wait until Domeric is born first), Qyburn (Beria + Mengele + Mr. Rogers - useful ally, but need to minimize his influence over others)_

Feeling satisfied, I put the quill down, gave the parchment a minute to dry, and got dressing. I was just happy that Tywin felt autonomous enough to not have servants dress him in the field. I mean, it's not like I'm going to battle or anything now, right?

Daaayum, Tywin has good taste. Myrish silk smallclothes, custom-fit leather boots, and a velvet doublet with gold threading? I could get used to wearing this.

Now, Pate said something about a siege. Siege, siege, siege, siege, siege...

Memories came rushing into my mind, memories that made my blood boil at the mere suggestion that the events they describe happened. Raising the bannermen behind father's back. The meeting with some of the like-minded lords. The plume of ash and dust that rose into the sky as Tarbeck Hall's roof came down. Lord Roger's army, routed, fleeing in panic to their home. To Castamere.

I scrambled over to my parchment and added one last bullet point.

 _- **FUC** **K**_ **_THE _****_REYNES_** ** _._**

"Ah, Lord Tywin!" Lord Westerling added some fake cheer to his voice as I strolled into the command tent. "One of Lord Reyne's pages came up and offered terms. We were waiting for you to arrive before we looked at them." He gestured to the scroll on the table, its red wax seal unbroken.

I immediately picked it up, broke it, and scanned the contents, promptly before bursting out into laughter. The other lords were taken aback for a moment, which I was okay with. What's the point in having underlings if you can't keep them on their toes every now and then?

Eventually, the laughter fit subsided, I wiped a tear from my eye, set the parchment on the table, and reverted my face to stone cold seriousness. "Alright, my lords, very funny. Where are the real terms that Lord Reyne sent?"

"My lord," Lord Marbrand gulped nervously, "those are the terms Lord Reyne sent, I saw the page bring them myself!"

"Then that leaves me with two possibilities." I stated, "Either Lord Roger's wound has made him more delirious than we thought, or he thought us stupid enough to return his lands and make us his hostages when we have the upper hand."

Lord Plumm tried to interject, "Lord Tywin, shall we send-"

I held up my hand. "There will be no counter-offer. If Lord Reyne mocks us with his terms, then we shall not dignify him with a response." At last, I turned to the table. "Shall we begin our strategy?"

Upon the war table sat a large parchment map showing the layout of Castamere and the surrounding land. A bunch of wooden red pegs were stacked over several buildings (with the largest over squares labeled 'gatehouse' and 'low keep', while scores of gold, purple, white, and orange pegs surrounded the line denoting the castle walls.

I took a deep breath, knowing that what I was going to say next would be very long. "The north side of Castamere is against the slope of the mountain, so that makes an assault from that direction fundamentally impossible. The south wall features its main gate, but the Reynes have almost certainly placed the majority of their above-ground men there. The eastern side has the high keep, but the terrain makes it difficult for our siege engines to function properly and will give them time to mount a stronger defense. Therefore, the only viable strategy..." I shifted several pegs shaped like miniature catapults "Is to concentrate all our siege engines on the western walls. We create multiple small breaches, send in our forces, and sweep away whichever forces survived Tarbeck Hall."

"But what of the mines? They probably have provisions for months down there!" Lord Westerling asked again, clearly trying to ingratiate himself with me before I can fully exercise power against him. This guy's probably Gawen's father; dude's clearly too old to be the Lord of the Crag by 298.

"I'm aware that they can take shelter in their mines, it's what I hope they do, in fact. They say the doors of Castamere are six inches of ironwood covered with another inch of steel, that Lann the Clever himself planted the trees they used to make it, that it can't be burnt, broken, or hacked open. But you know what they never call it?"

I place my finger on a blob of blue ink labeled 'the Reynewater'.

"Watertight."


	3. Three: or high water

One thing they never say about the Westerlands in the books is that they're absolutely _beautiful_.

You know how every one of the Kingdoms is aesthetically based on somewhere in the real world? The North is northern England, the Reach is southern France, Dorne is Spain, and all that? Then the Westerlands must be the Bavarian Alps. I'm half-expecting Maria von Trapp to dance her way over the next hill any minute now.

I could get used to having breakfast - sorry, _breaking my fast_ \- in a mountain valley every day. Of course, if Tywin's memories are accurate, the view is nowhere near as breathtaking as the terrace from the Rock. I can't _wait_ to see that shit in person.

I stifled a belch as I set down my spoon and a servant began clearing my spot at the table. Fresh fruits, porridge flavored with honey and cinnamon, and a side of roast venison, of all things. A surprise, to be sure, but a welcome one. "If you will excuse me, my lords," I said as I stood up, "I believe the siege engines should be almost all in position by now, and I desire to inspect them before they begin." I took one more breath of fresh mountain air before beginning the walk down to the front lines.

Castamere had a layout that shunned most traditional castle designs. Despite its prominence, it had little in ways of a village outside its walls. Most of the smallfolk under the Reynes actually lived on the other side of the lake and ferried over any cargo, leaving the main holdfast surrounded by fewer than two dozen thatched-roof cottages. Either way, both towns were being secured by my men. They were all loyal to me and probably weren't inclined to rape or loot, but I took care to remind them that I'd cut off any part of their bodies that touched a smallfolk with malice.

The castle itself consisted of two main structures, oh-so-originally referred to as the 'low keep' and the 'high keep'. The high keep was a squat, round tower about four stories high that was built directly into the curtain wall, mostly to house the garrison. The low keep was a boxy three-story affair leading directly into the mountain that was hardly visible above the wall, which served as little more than a foyer for the _real_ keep. Tywin had visited Castamere once before, when he was about eight, some diplomatic journey with his father. Most of his memories were of the beautifully-carved golden statue of past lords or silk tapestries of hunting scenes lining every hall, his view of which had soured after realizing they were probably bought with gold stolen from his father. I wonder how it looks now with an additional decade of pilfering.

For some reason, all this was tickling something in the back of my mind, some old memory of my own that told me of underlying familiarity. And then it hit me. A mountainside retreat in an old mining region, a valley over from the nearest village, the underground tunnels reinforced and converted into bunkers for a last stand... this was essentially Berchtesgaden on steroids. Eat your heart out, Easy Company.

At last, I arrived at the main siege camp. A portly, middle-aged knight named Olyver, who had lost three of his fingers in the Blackfyre rebellion (not the Ninepenny War, the one before that), was yelling at a group of clearly green Marbrand men about how his nan could arm a trebuchet faster than them, and she's dead. Clearly the man I wanted to talk to.

I cleared my throat. "Ser Olyver?"

"WHAT NOW, YA GODS-DAMNED WASTE OF- oh." The look on the guy's face when he realized he almost cussed out his liege lord was priceless. "Uh... 'pologies on my words, Lord Tywin, ya know 'ow the men need to be whipped into shape time to time."

"I'm quite aware. How come the siege engines?"

"Ah 'spose they're just near done, milord, once these DAMN LAYABOUTS STOP SITTIN' WIT' THEIR THUMBS UP THEIR ARSES AND GET MOVIN'! ...'pologies again, milord."

"Good. Have your men start loading, we begin the assault in an hour."

"Of course, milord, no problem." He quickly bowed and waddled off to the next trebuchet, screaming, "AND WHAT'S THE PROBLEM 'ERE, TOO BUSY SUCKIN' EACH OTHERS' COCKS TO FINISH UP? GET TO IT!"

Thank God I'm not working under him, I'd be too busy laughing at every word that came out of his mouth to get anything done..

I should probably get my armor on, seeing as to how there's actually gonna be a battle. It would be pretty awkward if my place in the history books ends with "and then Ser Tywin got Harold Godwinson'ed at age nineteen, the end."

* * *

"MEN OF CASTAMERE!" I boomed - holy shit, I'm good at shouting too - to the men along the walls, "THIS IS YOUR LAST OPPORTUNITY FOR CLEMENCY! THOSE WHO LAY DOWN THEIR ARMS AND YIELD SHALL BE TREATED WITH FAIRNESS AND MERCY!" I gave it another moment for the words to sink in. "BUT IF YOU CHOOSE TO FIGHT, YOU SHALL BE SHOWN NEITHER! THIS I SWEAR, ON MY HONOR AS A LANNISTER! THE CHOICE IS YOURS!"

I was about to turn my horse around when a crossbow bolt sailed through the air about a foot to my right and planted itself in the dirt.

Alright, fuck you then.

I rode my horse back to the siege engines and told the commanders to fire at will. Not a moment later, half a dozen boulders went sailing toward the walls of Castamere. The commanders, who functioned as a kind of ad-hoc siege engineer, had earlier told me that it would be anywhere from a day to a week of constant bombardment until we had a sizable enough gap to storm the castle. That wasn't what I was concerned with, however.

A short horse ride away, I saw the true focus of my siege. The Reynewater - Jesus, do they thrive on shitty house name puns here? - was a picturesque lake nestled in the valley that would seem at home on an overpriced postcard or some pretentious travel photographer's flickr page. The water was a bright, rich blue, probably due to underground copper reserves leeching into it or something. And along the shore, scores of men were walking around with shovels and picks, digging the beginnings of a massive trench from the lake shore to the castle walls. The Reynes were aware of the disastrous implications of the lake running over its banks in a spring thaw or a particularly bad storm, so they had built berms and levees over the centuries near the western walls. Of course, what man can build, man can easily destroy.

In the distance, I heard a faint snapping sound, followed by a series of dull _thud_ s. Seems that the siege teams had reloaded rather quickly. It had been what, five, ten minutes? Assuming that they won't have any ammunition problems, the walls should be reduced to rubble in no time! Maybe. I think. I dunno, _Crusader Kings_ never gave this much depth to sieges.

I rode over to the foreman, a tall, lanky fellow named Donnel who seemed to have a good eye for architectural details, and dismounted. "Ah, Donnel! How comes the trench?"

"Quite well, Lord Tywin." Donnel seemed to be a man of few words, a personality type that I certainly preferred to a motor-mouth who's convinced that the more he talks, the more I'll like him. "The soldiers are proving to be dutiful workers, and our pace is currently ten feet of trench an hour. I've even had the first fifty feet of the trench lined with logs to act as a retaining wall and stop the banks from washing out, if it will really take as much water as you say."

"Excellent work. I would advise you to send men to start cutting channels through the berms so that the trench work proceeds more smoothly."

"I already have, my lord."

I'm gonna keep this guy around. Maybe if I ever decide to build a canal to the Tumblestone... another time. But a naturally talented civil engineer like that is someone I would _definitely_ want to keep under my employ.

Still, there's little I can do now besides let my men do their job. The sun's already high up, so it'll probably be time for a light lunch soon. I saw the cooks smoking some beef last night, so it'll hopefully be that.

Note to self: invent the sandwich.

* * *

"Milord! Milord!" Pate burst into the tent, making me scramble to retie my robe. Jesus, did they not invent courtesy until the industrial age?

"What now, Pate?"

"Lord Westerling said that the siege commanders have broken through the wall, milord! They're waiting for your orders!" And with that, he hastily bowed and darted out of the tent once more.

Of all the times that they had to break the walls, it had to be _right_ before I was gonna take my first bath in a week. Now it'll be cold by the time I'm done, and I'll have to wait _again_ for the servants to reheat the water. Fuck this.

I threw on my clothes, called the servant to fasten the breastplate, jumped on the horse, and bolted to the front lines as fast as it could carry me. I arrived just in time to see the lords gather.

"Ah, Lord Tywin," Lord Westerling called out as I dismounted, "it seems the page found you just in time!" It seems he always made a concentrated effort to talk to me first at every meeting. Fuck you, it's not gonna make me like you more.

"Talk to me, people, I want a full report on everything that's happened since the wall came down."

Thankfully, the lords were smart enough to drop the platitudes and niceties when I went into serious mode. Lord Plumm was the first to speak. "The catapults first breached the wall just past dawn today, and they widened it to about three men abreast near an hour ago. We have three hundred knights and eight hundred men-at-arms ready to charge the breach now, my Lord."

"Good. And defenses? What have the Reynes prepared for us?"

"They seem to be rather few in number, Lord Tywin," answered Lord Stackspear. "Lord Roger is delirious with fever from his wound, so his brother Ser Reynard has been seen commanding the forces along the walls. He has no more than a hundred men-at-arms stationed, and probably less knights."

"Fewer."

"Pardon, my lord?"

"Never mind, continue."

"As I was saying... Ser Reynard probably commands no more than one-and-half hundred forces - above the surface, that is. There are probably another two-and-half hundred men-at-arms, and another half-hundred knights below the surface. When we send our men through the breach, Ser Reynard will most likely focus on defending the low keep while the last of their supplies are moved underground. Once that is complete, he will retreat inside with however many men he can and seal the doors. Normally, I would then advise preparations for a long-term siege, but your plans have clearly rendered that moot, my lord."

"Excellent," I replied. "Focus all forces going through the breach on encircling the low keep and preventing any Reyne forces from retreating. It will probably stop Ser Reynard from escaping, but every man we can stop from going through, the better. I want the knights to lead the charge as soon as they are ready."

"I will see to it at once, my lord." Lord Stackspear bowed and walked out. The man was clearly trying to gain my favor, but at least he was smart enough to go about it by doing his job properly. I'll make it a point to only reward exemplary work, but I won't forget good work.

Oh god, I'm even thinking like a Prussian colonel now. Tywin Lannister, not even once.

Within ten minutes, I sat safely atop my horse and gazed as the swarm of shimmering steel pouring through the hole in the walls of Castamere. Part of me wished that I had a pair of binoculars or a spyglass or something to see the battle up-close, but were overruled by the part of my body listening to the screams on the wind. Besides, Tywin's memories of combat in the Stepstones were enough for me.

Once all the knights had entered the breach, there was frankly very little for me to do. I trusted that the knights could do their job, and that the trench-diggers would function fine without my micromanagement. Besides, even if something did go wrong, there would be very little I could do about it at that point. So, I took the opportunity to sit in the shade of the command tent, sip a glass of fine Dornish red, and wait for news to arrive from the front.

Fortunately, I did not have to wait long.

A knight flying the Westerling banner - one of his sons, perhaps? - rode up to the tent and quickly dismounted. Before I could say anything, he said, "Castamere is yours, my lord," before bowing, re-mounting his horse, and riding back to the keep.

Needless to say, I downed the rest of the goblet and followed soon after.

The first thing I did when I arrived at Castamere was survey the damage. Besides men widening the breach in the wall for the water trench, the majority of the castle was unscathed. That was mostly because the Reynes had already picked it clean before retreating underground, so there was no strategic value in trying to hold many of the buildings. Dozens of men wearing red lions were being led out with their hands bound, and nearly every Westerman than I saw seemed to be in high spirits. All in all, a good-

Damn, I almost tripped on-

- _that body_.

Oh, oh _Jesus_. Wh- what happened to his face? What kind of sick fuck would do that? He's only a kid, for Christ's sake! And is that-

Okay, I've seen enough of war forever to not go near a battlefield again. Fuck this gay earth.

And the scariest thing? I didn't even _notice_ the guy at first. It's like I just subconsciously zoned it out or something, like I was used to this shit.

After suppressing the rapidly-building nausea, I stopped inside the high keep, which the lords had commandeered as their forward command post

"...and?" I asked, hoping someone would give me literally any relevant information.

"Everything has gone according to plan, my lord," Lord Marbrand replied. "Eight-and-ten Castamere men-at-arms slain, four-and-ninety captured or surrendered, and some men say that Ser Reynard Reyne himself was wounded while fleeing. And only twenty of our own dead, with four-and-ten wounded."

"Very good. Now, any word on how long it will take for the trench to be completed and opened?"

Donnel took the opportunity to interject. "We are only a hundred feet from the wall, so we should be able to reach the wall and channel it into the low keep before dusk at the current pace."

I put on the most evil smile I could muster. "Excellent. Now, to offer counter-terms."

* * *

When I started down the wide staircase beneath the low keep to the underground keep's entrance, I knew the doors would be big. However, I failed to realize it was measured by the standards of a world with seven hundred-foot ice walls a dragons as long as football fields. By my standards, the doors were _BIG_.

Two massive ironwood doors, each of them a good thirty feet high, inlaid with steel and red gold reliefs of roaring lions. They were works of art in their own right. I'd hate to see them take water damage.

I slammed my mailed fist on the door three times, letting each knock reverberate through the silent hall like a bell. And today it tolls for thee, House Reyne.

After a short eternity, I heard a muffled voice yell out, "Who goes there?"

"Ser Tywin of House Lannister! Bring Lord Roger to the door, I wish to offer terms!"

"Lord Roger can't!" the voice replied. "He's with fever!"

George R.R. Martin _has_ to be fucking with me right now.

"Then what about his brother, Ser Reynard?"

"He can't, either! He's too... what's the word... incapacitated by his wounds! ...Can I take a message?"

I was wrong. This world isn't being written by George R.R. Martin, it's being written by Monty Python.

"Tell Lord Roger that if he does not send a suitable member of his family to represent him within half an hour's turn to hear terms, it will be the last mistake he makes!"

"Right, milord!" I could vaguely hear the sound of footsteps scampering off.

After a few minutes, I heard several more pairs of footsteps returning to the door.

"Who goes there?" I asked, relishing in the opportunity.

"Ser Ryam Reyne, eldest son of Lord Roger and heir to Castamere."

Another voice, deeper, joined in. "And Ser Samwell Hill, commander of his Lordship's garrison."

"And me again, milord." Oh Christ.

"You wished to discuss terms?" Ser Ryam asked.

I cleared my throat. "My terms are as follows: all members of house Reyne must present themselves to the Lannister camp before this time tomorrow, lay down their arms, and swear fealty. Upon their surrender, I shall conduct a fair trial befitting their status, with which we shall determine reparations and hostages, among other matters. Their ancestral right to Castamere shall be upheld; nay, I shall not strip an inch of land from your family. All men-at-arms and anointed knights who have fought under house Reyne shall be granted clemency and a full pardon, if they renew their vows of loyalty to their rightful liege lord. This I swear on my honor and the honor of house Lannister."

There was a brief sputter of murmuring on the other side of the door. "And if we fail to accept the terms?" Commander Hill asked.

"If you do not accept my terms unconditionally, then I will be forced to put every man, woman, and child in Castamere to death for sedition and rebellion. Your time starts now."

* * *

The trench was complete. The dirt was dug out, the walls were lined with timber, and a crude barricade of soil and broken masonry redirected the water down the stairs to the low keep. Only a small berm of fresh-piled soil, less than a foot wide, separated it from the water's edge. The lords decided among themselves that I would be granted the 'honor' of breaking the berm and flooding the trench.

I hadn't offered any resistance. In fact, I would've demanded the right to do it if anyone else had volunteered. It was my plan (well, 'mine'), and I would see it through. Assuming the Reynes were myopic enough to reject the terms I offered, I wouldn't want all the blood down there to be on someone else's hands.

Even then, there was a part of me that was oddly - no, _disturbingly_ \- comfortable with the notion that I'd be ending scores of lives. Almost proud of it. And I mean more than the morbid-curiosity, call-of-the-void, I-wouldn't-but-I-could-totally-push-that-woman-in-front-of-that-oncoming-train kind. Like an actual little corner of my brain was crying out _do it, do it, do it_.

Maybe...

Maybe there's still a little bit of Tywin left in this body?

I mean, the dude's a fighter, he doesn't seem like he would just roll over and let some smartass college student stroll in and take over his entire consciousness. That would explain why my opinion of the Reynes went from 'mildly negative' to 'leave no survivors' overnight. And why I was just mentally blocking out the corpses in Castamere. And how my ideals of battle strategy are more in-depth than 'go forward, kill things'.

I mean, I inherited Tywin's memories and life experiences, his ability to speak Andal and _kkhh_ properly, his muscle memory, his sleeping habits (thank god he's an early riser), even his taste in wines, so why wouldn't I inherit his underlying attitudes and perspectives? Why wouldn't I be able to sleep like a baby tonight, rather than develop a personal understanding of why Robert Baratheon drinks?

And it scares the _shit_ out of me.

"Uh... milord?" Pate whispered. "The shovel?"

And that's when I realized that I've been standing like an idiot holding a shovel for the last ten seconds.

Right. Let's go commit a war crime.

"Lords, bannermen, loyal servants of the Rock, the red and gold lions have coexisted for too long. But now, _there can only be one_!" I know, quoting _Highlander_ is cheesy as fuck, but what

And with that, I drove my shovel into the dirt and carved a small channel into the berm.

Slowly, the water began trickling through, which turned into a stream, which turned into a flood, which turned into a raging torrent. Men ran along as the current rushed down the trench, whooping and hollering the entire way for the destruction it would soon bring upon one of the proudest houses in the Westerlands. I, on the other hand, was content to methodically pace along, paying more attention to the men than the rivers. Some of the Castamere prisoners began raging, or wailing at whoever would listen that they had a wife and son underground, or simply stared catatonically. Silently, I prayed that the Reynes would be smart enough to spare these men their agony.

After a good half-mile walk to the low keep's entrance, we all stood, peering down the stairs. All we could hear was the frankly quite soothing sound of water rushing down the steps. Water was pooling at the base of the doors, only several inches high. For a moment, everyone grew dead silent, as if expecting something to happen. The doors to open, the water to rush in, the roof to fall in, _anything_. At last, there was a sound...

 _Bloop_.

Bloop?

Then another _bloop_. And another one. Eventually, we all realized the source: those were air bubbles. Water was draining past the bottom of the doors, seeping through loose stones, using every available route of entry into the underground keep. The men cheered louder, the engineers sighed in relief, the prisoners wailed, and I? I just felt like a giant weight had been lifted off me.

After all, it all falls on the Reynes now. I offered them a choice to live or die. If they're too pigheaded to accept it, then that means all the death, this senseless death, would be on their hands. And none of it on mine.

Right?

* * *

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling of the tent flutter in the breeze.

I, the guy who feels bad after going duck hunting, killed those people.

I signed their death warrant.

Me.

Part of my brain, which I've mock-affectionately refer to as the Tywin corner, seemed to cry out _What's the big deal? Go to sleep already_.

Well fuck you, Tywin corner.

Donnel the engineer said that at the current rate of flow, it would take the better part of a week to flood Castamere to the surface. If he put the men to work another day to widen the trench, it would still take seventy-two hours.

Seventy-two hours. Seventy-two hours of being trapped, watching the world around you grow darker as the torches are extinguished. No food that hasn't turned to waterlogged mush. Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink, because it's full of the piss and shit and stink from the bodies of your dead family. Seventy-two hours stewing in that, wondering whether it'll be the starvation that gets you first. Or maybe the dehydration. Or maybe you're trapped in a pocket or run out of air. Or maybe you try to swim for a new pocket, and you get caught on something underwater, and you struggle effortlessly as your lungs seem to burn and finally explode as the water rushes in. Or maybe you've been treading water for two days, so you try and float. What's the harm in floating for a moment? And then you relax, but the next thing you know, you've stopped paddling, and you slowly slide below the surface, your mind racing as you try to connect your brain to your arms to get yourself to move, to cry, to do ANYTHING, but you're just so _tired_ that all you can do is watch the light fade above you.

Maybe I can open it after the twenty-four hours. After all the Reynes have drowned, and all that's left are the servants and the maids and the children. The other lords surely wouldn't look down on me for that, right?

The Tywin corner wouldn't shut up. _They stayed in Castamere, they chose to serve the Reynes. Letting them live shows weakness toward your foes. You're no Toothless Lion, are you?_

Jesus Christ, is everyone in Westeros a sociopath or are they just Olympian-tier mental gymnasts?

Regardless, the Tywin corner did have a point. Tywin's entire reputation in canon was built on utter brutality toward those who crossed him, and fear of that brutality was what allowed him to get so much shit done.

Maybe if all these people die, something good might come of it. And I'm gonna work like hell to make sure that it does.

Just as I was about to close my eyes, I was subjected to the all-too-familiar sound of Pate running through the tent door without warning.

"M- milord..." he paused to catch his breath while I sat up in bed, "It's the Reynes... they surrendered!"

Maybe I will be able to sleep soundly tonight.


	4. Four: The Trial of Roger R

The sight of Lord Roger Reyne outside my tent, hands bound and mouth gagged, was probably the best thing I could wake up to. Hell, give me a cappuccino and some fuzzy slippers and I'd call it the best day of my life. The mere sight of him seemed to send the Tywin corner into overdrive, mostly concerning the fact that his head wasn't atop a spike yet. One more thing I'd have to put up with in the meantime.

Behind him were another man and three boys, all of them in chains, while two other men stood at their lord's side. Two small girls trailed behind the party, trying to make themselves as inconspicuous as possible. The chained man - who seems to be trying very hard to keep weight off his left leg - was probably Ser Reynard, and the boys must be the sons and nephews. As for the other two, I'm not entirely sure. Cousins? Guardsmen? Bannermen sympathetic to my cause? It didn't matter, as the party was surrounded by the other lords and two dozen Lannister pikemen.

Either way, the defenders were all assembled, and the trial would begin in a moment. You'd have to have the cognitive skills of Hodor to not recognize the verdict as a foregone conclusion, but maintaining at least a veneer of legality never seemed to hurt anyone. I don't mind, all the lords here don't mind, and Aerys sure as hell won't mind. The only people who do mind are the ones on trial and Tytos Lannister, who could probably be dissuaded by telling him I'm sending the Reynes to a nice farm upstate.

For my role as judge, I had chosen every single piece of Lannister-themed finery in my wardrobe. Polished red leather boots, silk breeches dyed a beautiful shade of gold, and a red velvet doublet with a golden lion's head embroidered on it. I felt like a marching band conductor in this getup, but it looked snazzy as hell. I'd probably die of heatstroke if the trial continued past noon, but I had a pretty good feeling the verdict would come through quickly. Call it a hunch.

At last, I ascended a makeshift podium and rapped a fist on the surface three times, calling the drumhead court to order.

"The trial is now in session. Would the accused state their names?" I asked. Stately, but still dripping with obvious contempt.

Lord Roger began to writhe, screaming what was undoubtedly a _very_ unpleasant series of words through his gag, while the youth holding him spoke up.

"I am Ser Ryam Rayne, my lord. I am the eldest son of Lord Roger Reyne, and I speak on his behalf. He is currently _incapacitated_ and unfit to represent himself in court." Lord Roger thrashed a bit harder at the metnion. "I also speak for my brothers Reynard and Rollam Reyne. We all submit ourselves _willingly_ " - he paused to glare at his father - "to your benevolent mercy."

The lad was about sixteen and seemed to have inherited his father's skill and his uncle's desire to not be suicidal for honor's sake. No wonder Roger was pissed about Genna's marriage to Emmon Frey, the boy would've been the perfect age for a betrothal to her

The other chained man was next to answer. "I am Ser Reynard Reyne, second-born son of Lord Robert Reyne and brother of Lord Roger Reyne, my lord. I speak on behalf of my son Robert and my daughter, Rhaella Reyne."

How old was the girl, eight? Ten? She seemed like she'd be a good betrothal for Tygett once this whole mess was over.

The other man holding Lord Roger added his voice at last. "I am Ser Samwell Hill, commander of the garrison at Castamere, natural-born son of Ser Ronnel Reyne - brother of Lord Robert Reyne - and cousin of Lord Roger and Ser Reynard Reyne. I also speak on the behalf of my daughter Rohanne, my lord."

Jesus _Christ_ , what is it with these people and alliteration?!

I forced myself to ignore the god-awful nomenclature and proceed as I had practiced. "Do you remit yourselves to the mercy of the court and swear to accept the verdict issued?"

A chorus of "I do"s was returned. Perfect.

"Very well." I shuffled some papers and glared down at them, trying to look as official as possible. "Lord Roger Reyne, you stand accused of conspiracy to commit treason and sedition against your liege lord, summoning your bannermen in rebellion, and attacking agents of your liege. Ser Ryam, does Lord Roger deny the charges?"

Ser Roger shouted a muffled phrase that sounded vaguely like 'fuck your mother'. Thankfully, Ser Ryam showed more tact and replied "He does not deny the charges levied against him, my lord."

It took every ounce of my being not to burst out in laughter then and there. "Ser Ryam, Ser Reynard, and Ser Samwell, you and those on your behalf stand accused of accessory to conspiracy of treason and sedition, accessory to treason, and accessory to attacking agents of your liege. Do you deny the charges?"

Almost in unison, they replied, "No, my lord." Creepy, but nonetheless perfect.

"Very well. The court shall now discuss to the payment of reparations. For the outstanding debts held by House Lannister of Casterly Rock in-"

"Pardon, my lord," Ser Ryam interrupted, "but I wish to speak in my father's defense-"

"Denied," I cut him off, my voice absolutely _dripping_ with satisfaction. "By failure to deny the charges levied against him, Lord Roger has forfeited the right to an argument in his defense. The court shall now discuss the payment of reparations."

"But-"

" _THE COURT SHALL NOW DISCUSS THE PAYMENT OF REPARATIONS_ ," I thundered. Goddamn, that feels good. "No objections? The court shall proceed.

"For the outstanding debts held by House Lannister of Casterly Rock in the name of Lord Roger Reyne, the total value of all held debt is in excess of five million and four hundred thousand gold dragons. Ser Ryam, does Lord Roger dispute the value in question?"

More angry whispering between the Reynes. "No, my lord."

"Due to the nature of the debt, an agent representing the debtor house is free to call in the debt to the creditor house at the debtor's will. As representative of the debtor House Lannister, I choose to exercise that right at this time. All assets available in the treasuries of House Reyne shall immediately go to the repayment of the debt, followed by the repossession and sale of all furnishings greater than five gold dragons in value within the holdfast of Castamere. If there still remains an outstanding debt, then all gold and silver mines owned by House Reyne of Castamere shall be taxed at three-fourths of all revenue until the debt is repaid in full. Since the debt is to be repaid at the debtor's will and there is no dispute over the value of the debt in question, the matter is settled." I slammed my fist on the table in conclusion.

"Objection!" Ser Ryam cried out, "Your terms promised that House Reyne would not forfeit any property for reparations!"

" _Overruled_ ," I returned in the coldest voice I could muster. "The terms specified that no _land_ shall be forfeited by house Reyne for reparations, and no land has been forfeited. It does well to remember that all land is property, but _not_ all property is land."

The Reynes collectively grumbled, clearly irate but knowing they had no (legal) leg to stand on. I know the Tywin corner of my brain wasn't too satisfied yet, but I personally found this slow burn sort of humiliation to be far more satisfying in the long run.

"The payment of reparations has been resolved," I continued, "and now the court shall discuss sentencing for the accused."

More grumbling. More pleasure for me.

"Guards, for the safety of all involved, please separate the accused from one another and bring them forward for individual reading of their sentences." As Redcloaks stepped forward and began individually separating the prisoners, all the imprisoned Reynes began making a general clamor. Lord Roger even tried to headbutt the guard holding him, leading to an additional two marching forward to restrain his head and neck. As luck would have it he was up first.

"Lord Roger Reyne of Castamere," I boomed, "due to your failure to deny the charges set against you, the court hereby finds you _guilty_ of all charges, and sentences you to be hanged at noon today."

Lord Roger thrashed and writhed harder than ever before, trying to inflict some sort of pain on any Lannister guardsman around him as they brought him closer. "Poor thing, must be delirious with fever from his wound. A pity," I softly chided as the guards dragged him back from the podium.

I wished that I could savor the moment a little longer, but I had business to do. "Ser Reynard Reyne of Castamere, due to your failure to deny the charges set against you, the court hereby finds you guilty of all charges, and sentences you to be hanged at noon today."

Upon hearing his sentence, Ser Reynard yelled out a list of words that Lord Roger _wished_ he could've said to me, all while trying to break free and throttle anyone he can get his hands on. I nodded to a guard, who swiftly placed a boot on Ser Reynard's left knee and sent him to the ground howling in pain. I permitted myself a slight grin at the sight.

I noticed that Ser Ryam had seemed sufficiently horrified at the proceedings and regretful that he had ever forced his father to agree to the terms. that would make what came next all the more satisfying.

"Ser Ryam Reyne of Castamere, due to your failure to deny the charges set against you, the court hereby finds you guilty of all charges. While the option of taking the black is normally sufficient in lieu of death..." I watched a slight glimmer of hope form in Lord Roger's eyes. "However, the particularly egregious nature of this treason, as well as your position as eldest son and successor to the conspirators, the court sentences you to be hanged at noon today."

The glimmer in Lord Roger's eyes was gone.

Ser Ryam didn't take the news well. "You lying whore's son! You promised us clemency and a fair trial! Others take you! I'll cut your gods-damned heart out myself, you-" his rant was cut short by a swift knee to the stomach.

"Guards, please restrain the accused to prevent him from speaking out of turn and infringing on the order of the court." Ser Ryam soon found a pair of iron clamped on his wrists and a rag tied around his mouth. The remaining Reynes got the message and wisely stayed silent.

"Reynard Reyne, son of Roger," I called out, breaking the quiet. The guards dragged forward a boy about twelve years old, sweating bullets and desperately trying not to piss his breeches. That's younger than Tygett. Hell, that's younger than my little sister. Here's to hoping that he's not an idiot.

"Due to your failure to deny the charges set against you, the court finds you guilty of all charges. However, although the Father urges us to be swift in dispensing justice, the Mother also teaches us to not be without mercy. A son is not his father." The boy's expression lightened somewhat. "Therefore, the court shall present you with the option of taking the black. You shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children, and spend the rest of your days as a sworn brother of the Night's Watch. Do you accept?"

The boy paused, tears welling up in his eyes, before drawing in a shaky breath. "I-I reject the court's offer. If my father and brother die, then I choose to die alongside them."

Even though it seems like the boy had gone to the Dickon Tarly School of Rational Decision-Making, even I had to admit that he had balls. Not many twelve-year-old boys could stare death in the face like that and not choose the easy way out.

"The court sentences you to be hanged at noon today."

Beyond the distant chirping of the birds and the wind, the court was as silent as the grave.

The last of the Reyne boys was brought up. This one was younger, probably no older than ten. Jesus Christ, what the fuck is wrong with me? Please please please please _please_ choose the black.

"Rollam Reyne, son of Roger, due to failure to deny your charges, the court finds you guilty of all charges. However, the court shall present you with the option of taking the black as a sworn brother of the Night's Watch. Do you accept?"

"The Wall! The Wall!" he cried out, before starting to sob.

"Very well. You shall be held as a ward of Casterly Rock until you are sent to the Wall by ship in a month's time."

Ser Reynard's son, Robert, was next. He also chose to take the black, which I was silently _very_ thankful for. I'm already gonna be killing one kid today, and that's clearly more than enough for the rest of my life. At least the two will have someone they know and trust up there.

The last called forth for sentencing was Ser Samwell Hill, commander of the garrison.

"Ser Samwell Hill, due to failure to deny the charges, the court finds you guilty of all charges. However, the court shall present you with the option of taking the black as a sworn brother of the Night's Watch. Do you accept?"

"I accept, my lord. May I ask a question, though?"

He's already accepted, there's no harm in it. "Granted."

"What of my daughter, my lord? And Ser Reynard's girl, too?"

Well damn, now I _really_ feel like a piece of shit.

"The daughters shall become wards of Casterly Rock until they reach maturity or a suitable marriage is found for them. They shall see no harm or ill treatment, I swear on my honor."

Ser Samwell bowed his head as the guards led him away to be put with the two boys doomed for the Wall. I could just barely hear him whisper, "Thank you, my lord," while they took him.

Most of the lords had begun to filter away, as well, leaving me standing at a podium like an idiot, Pate the servant, and half a dozen guards.

"With all male members of house Reyne of Castamere ineligible for inheritance, the Lordship of Castamere and all property in its name shall default to the control of house Lannister of Casterly Rock."

I halfheartedly let my fist fall on top of the podium. "Court adjourned."

* * *

Oh God, sodomize me with a shovel.

I grabbed the bottle of Arbor Gold and refilled my goblet.

I am a terrible human being.

I downed the goblet again. At least I don't hate red wine in this body, because that's all I've fucking got.

Note to self: see if they have hard liquor in Westeros.

I mean, he's a _fucking twelve year old_ , for Christ's sake!

And right on cue, there's the fucking Tywin corner again. _Calm down, he's just a Reyne_.

Calm down? _Calm down_?! How the _FUCK_ am I supposed to _CALM DOWN_ when I'm gonna be _EXECUTING A FRIGGIN' TWELVE YEAR OLD BOY FOR HIGH TREASON IN LESS THAN AN HOUR_?!

Maybe if I hit my head hard enough on the table, it'll concuss the Tywin corner hard enough to make it shut off.

In the middle of putting my theory to the test, Pate found it opportune to enter my tent once again (unannounced, obviously).

"Uh... milord?" I paused doing my 'bad Dobby' impression long enough to look at him. "The hangings are scheduled to start in half an hour's turn." I continued staring at him until he got the message, hastily bowed, and backed out of the tent.

Okay, I should probably put on a more appropriate outfit.

...and finish the goblet of wine.

For the occasion, I had chosen a similar outfit as the morning's trial, but with darker and more muted colors. Turns out that Tywin's doctrine in the show of 'wear at least one black piece of clothing every single waking moment of the day' was far more accurate than I expected. Also, lots of little golden lion patterns were sewn all over the doublet. I feel like a Lannister Vuitton handbag.

As I rode out to the execution, I could see that everything was set up as I instructed. The condemned men (and boy) were all standing on some hastily-erected gallows on top of a small hill in the valley, one with a beautiful view of Castamere and the lake. I felt that giving them one last look at everything they lost would be a fitting reminder. The only others to inhabit the hill were two guardsmen and a septon who tended to the smallfolk across the lake.

I walked up to the gallows and took a stroll by them to get one final look at them. Lord Roger and Ser Ryam were both gagged, Ser Reynard was more of a quiet seething type, and young Reynard was trying as hard as possible to keep a stiff upper lip. All I could hear was the sound of the tall grass swaying in the wind.

I did take the opportunity to stop in front of Ser Ryam. I leaned in close to his ear and, confident that nobody else could hear, whispered, "Apologies for the earlier misunderstanding, Ser Ryam. I _did_ promise your family a fair trial deserving your status. Though it seems you were under the delusion that you deserved to be treated as noblemen and not traitorous bandits." I pulled back before he could try to headbutt me and flashed a devilish little smile as I left him to squirm.

I didn't bother talking to the rest, their eyes said enough. Ser Reynard's were cold, a dull loathing saying that he would despise me with every fiber of his being for the (very short) remainder of his life.

Lord Roger's on the other hand, were flaming with a pure and utter hatred which left no doubt that if he wasn't tied up, he would rip out my heart with his bare hands and feed it to me here and now. I wonder how much of this is the delirium and how much is just his natural bravado.

I tried not to look at the boy's eyes. What I saw, however, was that he was too busy trying to convince himself he made the right choice to think anything about me.

I stepped off the gallows and took my position by the lever, while the septon began reciting the traditional Andal prayer for the dead. Despite my good night's rest, I felt my eyelids flutter a bit. Seems to me that no matter which body I'm in, the sound of a droning priest never fails to make me want to fall asleep.

When the septon concluded, I pulled the lever.

 _CLUNK_.

Four trapdoors fell, and with them four bodies. Three of them hung limply a moment later.

Lord Roger, however, kept swaying, his feet swinging wildly in the air. It seems someone made his rope too short.

Oops.

Inside my brain, the Tywin corner filled with something that could vaguely be described as satisfaction. Satiation would probably be more fitting.

Almost as if on cue, two minutes in, a man on top of Castamere's high keep raised the Lannister banner. I swear I hadn't set that up, but I wish I had.

Lord Roger kicked harder.

I continued watching him, half out of desire to see what I started through to the end and half out of morbid curiosity to see what a dying man looks like.

Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed, and the kicks grew weaker and farther apart, then just small spasms, then nothing.

Four bodies swayed in the wind.

I remained transfixed for a few more minutes, when one of the guardsmen approached me.

"Milord, I see banners along the main road, riding for Castamere. They look like ours."

I could see them too. A dozen or so horsemen, galloping along the distant road toward the gates of Castamere.

"Let the bodies hang for another hour, then cut them down and bring them to the Silent Sisters for preparation," I ordered as I mounted my horse. I don't think even Tywin would fuck with proper treatment of the dead.

As I rode down the hillside toward Castamere, I could see that they definitely see that they were flying Lannister colors. And I had a sinking feeling about who was leading them.

When I arrived at the gatehouse and rode inside the courtyard, I didn't even bother to dismount. Besides, I didn't want to be on the ground when _he_ was still mounted on his horse.

The first through the gate was a stocky man who looked oddly familiar. Tywin's memories reminded me that this was my brother, Ser Kevan Lannister.

We never got the opportunity to speak, but he was giving me a look that said "I'm sorry, but I tried, I _really_ did".

Behind him rode Tytos Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock.

* * *

We walked through the halls of Castamere in silence, the only noise being the soft _squish_ of our boots on the damp carpet beneath. Hopefully, we could get the servants to air them out and hope that most of the dyes don't run. Having to replace what was probably half a mile's worth of fine Myrish rugs was an expense I was _not_ willing to cover at this time.

The hallway eventually deposited us in the Reynes' dining hall, whose name I would consider to be the understatement of the century. When you can comfortably park a 747 in your main hall, it's not a hall, it's a fucking wonder of the world. And the amount of decoration in it, _Jesus Christ_ , the decorations. There's probably enough gold work, tapestries, and paintings on the walls to make the Vatican look austere. And this is _just one room_.

My point is, it took every single fiber of my being to not just gawk at it like an idiot.

We continued walking through the hall, trying to ignore the inch or so of standing water on the floor. An endless array of bags and crates were stacked on the tables, probably supplies that were moved up when the lower levels got completely flooded. At least the garrison here won't starve.

At last, the high table was in view. There were broken bottles of Arbor gold scattered about on the floor, possibly broken in the chaos of the surrender... or thrown at one another while arguing over the merits of surrender. Thankfully, there was an unbroken one next to two empty goblets, so I filled them up and handed one to Tytos.

"Tywin." Tytos sure could pull off sounding intimidated when he wanted to, but it loses a certain 'oomph' when everyone knows that you're incapable of following through.

"Father."

"What exactly were you hoping to accomplish by hanging the Reynes?"

"Restoring our family's honor."

"And how does that do it? You told me you were riding out to offer terms and restore the peace, not turn Castamere into a butcher's house!"

"And that is what I did. I offered the Reynes terms, they refused, so I dealt with them. Now we have peace."

"You had made it sound like you would show them mercy-"

"Mercy? You wish to lecture me about _mercy_? Your gods-damned 'mercy' is how this whole bloody mess started!"

"Why, you- I- That-" Tytos's face was turning a shade of red that seemed to match his doublet.

"Your 'mercy' meant that you were willing to forgive every missed interest payment, sign off on every loan increase without a second thought, and ignore every critical word about it, all in the names of 'letting bygones be bygones'. You let your bannermen rob you blind because you were too afraid to tell them 'no'. Do you know how much of the Rock's gold you've given away to the Reynes and their toadies in the past seventeen years? _Do you_?"

"N-no..." he stammered.

"Because I do. _Eight million, eight hundred and fifteen thousand, five hundred and seventy-two gold dragons plus interest_. Five and a half million of those went into Roger Reyne's coffers, two million to the Tarbecks, and a million total to their lesser banners, landed knights, and non-landed relatives. Almost one of every ten coins in the Rock passed out its doors at your behest. Was it that you didn't know, or that you just didn't care? 'Oh, I'm too busy looking for a new mistress to check the finances, I'll just let Tywin do it! I'll just have Tywin pull another hundred thousand dragons from the budget for another loan, he can shit gold on command! I'll just let Tywin run our finances and ignore his advice at every turn, I'm sure he won't mind!' Well guess what? _I FUCKING MIND_!"

Tytos simply stared slack-jawed, as if the fact that people didn't like him was some shocking new revelation.

"And it's not just the loans. All of this," I swept my hands around at the empty hall and let out a sardonic chuckle, "this is _your_ doing! You pissed away eight thousands years' worth of honor in less than twenty! You marrying Genna to Emmon Frey, sending Kevan to squire for the Reynes, the whores, the wine, giving away honors like candy, all of it turned house Lannister into the laughingstock of Westeros! Did you seriously believe that Lord Roger, Lady Ellyn, Walder Frey, or any of the bannermen actually loved you? Oh, they would laugh at your jokes and flatter you, but they all laugh at you behind your back. It was a con, a scam, a giant lie that you bought into because it allowed you to think that someone loved you. They loved the gold, they loved how easily you'd part with it, they loved how spineless you were, they loved how you never stood up for what's yours, but they never loved _you_. Part of me thinks that you knew the truth all along, but you ignored it so you could live in your fantasy land of Lord Tytos the Well-Liked and Beloved by All while your son, who you still saw as a child to be scolded when he did something you disapprove of, went and cleaned it up! You may be angry at me for reaping this, but _you_ were the one who sowed it long ago! This is all on _your_ hands, _not mine_!"

As I caught my breath, I noticed that Tytos didn't even move a muscle, just stare at his shoes with his head hung low. Eventually, I saw tears welling up in his eyes. Was this what normally happened? He would put on his doe-eyes, cry some crocodile tears, and grovel until someone spewed some feelgood bullshit at him? Well, it's not gonna work on _me_.

"Y-y... you're right."

Oh. Oh _god_ , he's not faking it.

He calmly set down his goblet, untouched, and started walking away.

When Tywin was a child, for a few brief years of bliss where he didn't notice the Reynes' scam, he saw his father as the greatest man to ever walk the earth. In his eyes, Lord Tytos was more than just a man, he was a being of infinite strength, with a laugh that could fill a room and bring a smile to everyone's face. As time went on and he learned the truth, he saw the man less as a paragon of joy and more a target for disgust and scorn, a view he continued to hold until the day I took up residency in his mind.

I could only see a creature deserving of infinite pity. He was a poor soul who had lost every meaningful relation in his life, thrust into a responsibility he had neither prepared nor desired to shoulder, and so desperate for anything resembling affirmation and support that he would shower that person in merits while reassuring himself that this is what affection really is.

I wanted to call out, to apologize, to give him a hug and tell him that he was only doing the best he could as a father and a lord, that I appreciated his efforts with all my heart. But I didn't. Maybe he needs a moment of harsh, unfiltered reality to hit him head-on, and hopefully he'll grow stronger from the experience.

I hope that's all it does.


	5. Five: Letters, part one

"Seven Hells, Tywin, what did you tell father?" Kevan whispered to me over dinner.

"Why do you ask?" I usually find that in this sort of scenario, it's best to feign ignorance.

"He seems a different man. He only drank half a goblet of wine during the entire supper, and I have yet to see him laugh all day. The last time he was like this was when he found out mother passed, but this... this is different."

Tytos noticed us looking at him and gave us a polite little half-hearted smile before returning to picking at his food.

"Different in what way?"

"'Tis hard to tell, but, if I had to say, calmer. More controlled. You remember how he was in those days, right?" Tywin's memories reminded me of the tears, the upturned furniture, the broken wine bottles, the cries in the middle of the night cursing every god whose name he could pronounce. It was one of the few times in his life that Tywin actually pitied the man.

"I simply told him the truth, Kevan. About him, me, this family, this war, all of it. Mayhaps it will change him for the better."

"We can only hope."

The rest of the dinner was fairly uneventful, with most of the lords and retainers chatting about the ride form Casterly Rock, or the difficulties of camp life with so few servants. The Castamere-shaped elephant in the room very intentionally remained unaddressed. The meal was served out on the field near the lords' tents, mostly because nobody would want to eat in a dining hall full of standing water. Some people had asked about the origin of the food, a topic that was quickly cut when they learned the suckling pig was 'liberated' from the Reynes' kitchens. Someone had even been sure to set up a servant's tent so that we couldn't see the keep from where we sat.

As the night dragged on and the wine started to run low, many of the lords began to walk (or in some cases, stumble) back to their tents while mumbling something about needing to wake up early for the ride back home. At least they felt they were able to leave right then. Despite the sweet beckoning of sleep, I was one of the last to leave, mostly to make sure that Tytos didn't try to drown himself in wine or slash his wrists with a steak knife. I'm genuinely concerned for the guy. Only when he stood up and headed back to his tent did I feel like it was safe for me to leave.

I stepped into the tent, feeling a massive sense of relief wash over me. Who would've thought that running a show trial for captured prisoners, executing half a noble family, and going on a massive tirade about why your not-father's such a shit ruler could leave someone so _drained_?

I got undressed (but not before checking to see if Pate would barge in again), slipped into my nightclothes, rinsed my mouth out with cleanwater (I don't have a toothbrush, but hell if I won't do _something_ to not lose all my teeth by sixty), and... I wasn't sure what to do. I just felt possessed with the need to do _something_ before I went to sleep, anything. Organize my papers, lay out my clothes for tomorrow, write a letter... writing a letter would do nicely.

I strode over to the writing desk and sat down. A small raven's scroll, one that arrived from the Rock during the trial. I broke the miniscule seal and read its contents:

 _Tywin,_

 _Father has found out your plan. He rode for Castamere this morn. I shall soon catch up with him and attempt to dissuade him, or at least temper his frenzy by the time he arrives._  
 _Prepare accordingly._

 _Your faithful brother,_  
 _Kevan_

Too little, too late. I set the scroll aside.

After a moment of searching, I successfully a roll of parchment and a quill. I was clueless on how to properly use a fountain pen, let alone a quill and inkpot, but Tywin's muscle memory was good enough. After a few practice scribbles on the back of Kevan's note, I managed a writing style that was similar enough to Tywin's original. Hopefully nobody could tell the difference.

But now, there was another dilemma: who should I write to? There was Steffon Baratheon, but the two had honestly started falling out of contact since the Ninepenny Wars; too many painful memories. There was Aerys, but I _definitely_ didn't want to get his attention until I reached a final conclusion on the whole 'should I be Hand of the King' dilemma. Kevan was already here, Tyg and Gerion were too young to explain the concept of 'crimes against humanity' to, so that leaves - _Joanna_.

The Tywin corner kicked into full overdrive, conjuring images of the one woman he truly loved in my mind. The way the sunlight played upon her hair during breakfast on the terrace, the gorgeous green dress she wore on her fifteenth nameday, how her eyes would light up when she'd laugh, the way her lips would purse whenever she pouted...

Okay, what the fuck.

First off, most of those memories were from when she's _fifteen_. Tywin spent an unhealthy amount of time imagining what was under that dress on her nameday. Sure, he was seventeen and she was only two years younger, but still, _ew_.

Second, she's Tywin's _cousin_. It's not like this is some Von Hapsburg shit-

Scratch that. This _is_ some Von Hapsburg shit.

Tywin's memories also began hinting at a certain wooden box in the bottom of his luggage. After a bit of rummaging around, I found it. _Jackpot_.

Inside were enough love letters to write half a Victorian romance novel. I thumbed through some of them. Not only was Tywin obsessed with Joanna, but she also indicated that the feeling was mutual. The oldest one was back when she was eight and Tywin was ten, talking about all the fun they had together when she visited Casterly Rock. Over the years, their friendship evolved into mutual attraction, and finally blossomed into romance.

The more recent letters talked about plans for marriage, what they would both wear on their wedding, the names she was considering for her future children, even some of the more _interesting_ techniques she wanted to try with him on her wedding night. I mean, I don't swing that way, but if she _insists_ on using a riding crop...

I felt the Tywin corner feel like it was about to shrivel and die out of sheer embarrassment.

Yes, a letter to Joanna would do nicely. Maybe it would get the Tywin corner to shut up forever if I make it super sappy and romantic.

With newfound alacrity, I grabbed the quill and began writing.

 _Dearest Joanna,_

 _We have met the enemy, and they are ours. The forces of Lord Roger have been scattered to the wind, Castamere has fallen to the might of Lannister steel, and the traitorous Reynes now hang atop the hill overlooking their castle. My father has even arrived, and I am glad he did not protest my actions._  
 _Although we revel in camp, it does not feel like a victory within my heart. I miss_ you _, my love. I long for your embrace, your tender touch, the joyous feeling of your soft lips meeting mine. The thought of you resting endless miles away from me causes my heart to ache anew, even now._  
 _The one small consolation I afford myself is that far away, in Casterly Rock, you are not subject to the horrors of battle, or threatened by the machinations of the Reynes and their toadies. I know that when I ride back, you will still be there awaiting me, as beautiful and elegant as I remember._  
I await our joyous reunion.

Faithfully yours,  
Tywin

Feeling satisfied, I put down the quill. It had matched the tone and language of the previous letters _beautifully_. Who would've thought that Tywin Lannister was such a romantic?

I carefully rolled up the letter, sealed it to be taken by courier with the other important mail tomorrow, and crawled into bed, my desire for productivity sated at last.

* * *

Considering how big it is, you'd be surprised how Casterly Rock can sneak up on you.

You'd think it would be easy to see from twenty miles away, but most of the River Road's southern path wound its way through a series of mountain passes before depositing you right on the outskirts of Lannisport. By then, we were no more than two miles from the Rock and _holy SHIT_ , that thing is massive. It's like a Dubai architect's interpretation of the Bible verse about 'a city upon a hill'. Considering the amount of towers, windows, and building facades dotting the sides of the cliffs, there must have been a good fifty floors inside, while Tywin's memories also reminded me of _at least_ another dozen below the ground. Sure, most of the lower levels were vaults, larders, barracks, stables, servants' quarters, and the like, but that still meant a couple dozen floors reserved entirely for House Lannister's uses. No word on a Scrooge McDuck-style money pit, however.

I was snapped out of my architectural mental ramblings when I heard the sound of distant hoofbeats gradually drawing closer. It seems my dear family decided to send a welcoming committee. As they neared and brought their mounts to a halt, I (or rather, Tywin) recognized the people leading it. There was young Tygett, Ser Lewys Lannister, a _very_ distant cousin who had been Castellan since Tywin's grandfather was alive; Tywin's cousin Ser Stafford Lannister, and alongside him... _Joanna_.

She's just as beautiful as Tywin remembered. Are there, like, no average-looking people in Westeros? You're either a super-attractive noble, a formerly super-attractive noble who's got fat/wounded/mad, or a hideous member of the unwashed masses.

As they came to a halt, I became hyper-aware of every little action of mine that Joanna might see and interpret badly. How's my hair? Is my doublet on straight? You can't fuck this up, you _won't_ fuck this up. Please don't start sweating, please don't start sweating, please don't start sweating...

be me, 7/10 Westerlander lord  
riding back from a busy day murdering children  
suddenly, qtFrey pie cousin rides up

"'Tis a wonderful sight to see you again, cousin!" Joanna exclaimed.

get harder than a greyscale victim

trenchers fall out of my saddlebags

"And it is just as wonderful," I smoothly replied, "to be reunited with you, dear Joanna."

Before she could say another word, Tygett rode up alongside her and scrunched up his face in disgust. "Gods, you two are sickening," he muttered, before turning to converse with Kevan over younger-sibling things. Joanna couldn't help but laugh, and our conversation died shortly after.

mfw I got courtingblocked by my kid brother  
cry while masturbating to my Valyrian porn scrolls that night

After a short ride full of longingly staring at Joanna's perfectly-combed hair blowing in the wind, we arrived at the Lion's Mouth. And I thought that the doors to Castamere were huge. Seriously, you'd need to chop down half the Redwood Forest to make one of these back home. How high is that, a hundred feet? Hundred and fifty? And how the _hell_ are they able to swing open that fast? I'd say I would be shocked if there was a complex system of gears and counterweights, but then again, the Lannisters are basically dwarves. They live in a mountain, have wonderful technology (or at least they will within my lifetime), are obsessed with mining gold, and they even have (Will have? Would've had? Would will have had? Will'st'd've had?) a son who's four feet tall. It makes _too much_ sense to be false.

The hall inside was even more insanely large and decorated. Giant columns of granite, perfectly smoothed over time and polished until they shone. Bas-reliefs in the walls depicting the life of Lann the Clever and assorted Kings of the Rock. I glanced up and saw gold, massive veins of it, crisscrossing the ceiling. Nothing says "I have 'fuck you' money" like leaving veins of perfectly minable gold ore in the walls as decoration.

I think I've found the single most **ＡＥＳＴＨＥＴＩＣ** place in all of space-time.

We reached the end of the ludicrously long entrance hangar and dismounted in the ridiculously expansive stables. In the corner, I saw a massive multi-wheeled monstrosity that seemed to have been collecting dust for some time, but was still recognizable as an infamous wheelhouse not unlike the one Cersei insisted on taking to the North. Note to self: burn it the moment I have a daughter.

As we exited the stables, I heard the sound of very small, very rapid footsteps. I turned around to find a small blond boy, probably no more than five or six years old, bolting toward us at full speed. "Father!" he exclaimed, launching himself at Tytos's legs. _Gerion_. I wonder if this is how Tywin treated his father at that age.

Behind him scurried a stout young woman in what looked like a beige nun's habit. "A thousand pardons, my lord, he slipped away from me and I just-"

"Think nothing of it, Bessa. Gerion, my boy!" Tytos roared with laughter, picking him up. "How have you been? Staying out of the sweetmeats in the kitchen, I hope?"

"It was terrible, father!" he exclaimed in the way that a child whose worst experience with tyranny was early bedtime can. "I wanted to ride out and see you and Tywin, but Tygett said I couldn't because I was a baby and only the grownups could ride out!"

Tytos cast a chiding look at his second-youngest. "Now Tygett, you can hardly make a claim about being a man grown at your age and with _that_ sort of behavior toward your family. Now you apologize to your brother right now."

Tygett mumbled out a halfhearted "sorry", but it was enough for Gerion, who eagerly let the issue drop and skipped along with us as we passed through the halls.

At last, our party arrived at the end of the hall and boarded... an elevator? It was more like a wooden lift powered by horses turning a giant wheel, but it was still an elevator. Then again, this should be the least surprising thing about the entire castle. I mean, the odds of there being at least one massively lazy King of the Rock at some point in time aren't exactly low. But seriously: _elevators_! Would it be too much to ask for ceiling fans and ice machines next?

My wishful thinking was rudely interrupted as the lift started to violently lurch. I'll admit, I instinctively reached out and grabbed onto Joanna's arm out of pure terror. I wasn't a fan of heights, especially if I was reaching said heights on a rickety wooden elevator in conditions that would give an OSHA inspector a nervous conniption. After I realized what I was doing, I awkwardly released my grip. Joanna playfully swatted at my hand as I withdrew it, before crossing her arms and giving me a mock look of scorn.

I stood ramrod straight and clasped my hands behind my back, trying my best to not burst out in laughter. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Joanna was trying, too.

We failed.

Then so did everyone else.

During one of the brief moments where I wasn't doubled over in laughter, I was able to catch a glimpse of Tytos. He wasn't anywhere near his old boisterous self, but he was definitely chuckling along with the others. I just hope that he keeps going up. Maybe knowing that his family is happy will help.

At last, we arrived at the "ground floor" of the Rock. Much like Castamere, Casterly Rock was mostly underground with what would pass for a small keep on the surface. Unlike Castamere, however, was that Casterly rock had a far different definition of 'small'. The castle on top of the mountain would've been fitting for any lord of rank below a Lord Paramount: a keep with a three-leveled terrace running along the west side, a solar the size of a small throne room, a throne room the size of a small dining hall, and a dining hall the size of a small keep. There was even a full-sized Sept with weekly services.

The keep sort of made a U-shape around a beautiful courtyard, dotted with delicate golden statues of elfen-looking cherubs adorned with vines and laurels (Children of the Forest?), or miniature Kings on the Rock riding on the backs of lions. I stopped and inspected it. It seemed like that lion's mane was made out of hundreds - if not thousands - of individually placed threads of golden wire. How many man-hours had it taken to do that? Marble also seemed to be the second most popular building material in the courtyard - the pillars of the facade, the baroquely-carved fountains (how did they pump the water all the way up here?), and even the window-frames (with perfectly smooth glass!) were made of it. Surrounding it were topiaries and shrubberies and blooming flowers of every kind.

If Highgarden managed to be more beautiful than this, then my eyeballs would probably fall out of their sockets due to an aesthetic overload.

I was roused from my thoughts once more by the incessant grumbling of my stomach. Our breakfast this morning had consisted of lukewarm porridge, overripe apples, and a sour Dornish red, so the idea of food prepared by an actual chef sounded very appetizing right about now.

As we walked into the _very_ lavishly-decorated dining room (because of course they have a second private dining hall), I noticed something on the walls. While I originally figured that it was painted plaster or stonework in the walls, it seemed to be a rich golden-orange that sparkled at every angle.

I paused for a moment to look at one of the wall panels by the door. It wasn't rock or paint - it was a thin disk of amber, set against a gold backing and polished until it was like a mirror. Hm.

The Lannisters have their own Amber Room.

 ** _THE LANNISTERS HAVE THEIR OWN AMBER ROOM_** **.**

I generally regarded the loss of the Amber Room to be one of the worst disasters in the history of art and architecture right behind the fact that nobody smothered Le Corbusier in the cradle, so the idea that there was another one of equal (if not greater!) quality, value, and age was like a shot of adrenaline to my little art nerd heart. The Tywin corner's reaction to my thoughts were _So? Big deal, it's just the dining room_ , but I was too busy imagining some rural sept using the _Just Judges_ panel as background decoration, or some Essosi merchant selling Faberge Eggs for two stags apiece, waiting to be found...

Lost wonders of the world aside, I sat down at the table as the food was first brought out, taking care to pick the seat next to Joanna. The first course was a lovely stew that awfully reminded me of beef bourguignon with a rich red wine (Ooh, I can use a wine press as the frame for a printing press!), followed by an excellently roasted lamb. I never thought of lambchops as a particularly amazing dish, but this lamb was out of this world. No wonder Robert Baratheon got fat if he ad access to food like this on a daily basis.

Speaking of fat, I glanced over at Tytos once in a while. He certainly had a full portion on his plate, but not something excessive. His appetite had seemed to return to normal from Castamere, and he was laughing along with Ser Lewys or eagerly telling little Gerion of all the different knights and lords of the Westerlands he had seen on the journey. Either he was damn good at putting on the act, or his spirits were greatly lifted by being with his family for just a day. I hope that this will be all it takes, but I don't think that we're out of the woods just yet.

Most of the discussion at the dinner table was idle small talk about the ride back from Castamere, or the latest revenue from taxing the guilds in Lannisport, or one of the other dozen inane topics that happened to cross Tytos's mind. Joanna and I remained fairly silent, occasionally smiling at one another or rolling our eyes when Tytos said some lame joke to Gerion. When the latter interrupted the former, a corner of her mouth would shoot up and turn that smile into a very Lena Headey-esque smirk. The fact that we were also subjecting Tygett to the horrors of grown-ups acting all lovey-dovey with each other made it even better.

What can I say? It's my duty as an older brother.

After a short dessert (feeling guilty whenever I play _Hatoful Boyfriend_ is a fair trade for the savory joys of pigeon pie in my book), we all headed back to our chambers one by one for some well deserved rest. I offered to escort Joanna back to hers, chivalrously leading her through the halls with her hand in mine.

When we finally arrived at her room, I was sure to give a cursory look around to see if the coast was clear of any prying eyes. Before we parted for the night, I gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. I may have held the hug a little longer than one between cousins should be, and the kiss may have been a little closer to the lips than one between cousins should be, but what the hell, she's not _my_ cousin. That's the Tywin corner's problem.

As we broke apart, I stared into her emerald eyes with an intensity that she reciprocated. I never noticed the little row of freckles that decorated the bridge of her nose. It's like GRRM wrote Joanna with the express purpose of making her as attractive to me as possi- _WOAH_.

Joanna wrapped her arms around my neck and pulled me into another kiss.

In that moment, I knew that I was in love, body, mind, vestige of the body's previous mind, and soul, with Joanna Lannister.

_

"Apologies, Lord Tywin, but let me review these orders one more time. You wish to contact House Redwyne of the Arbor-"

"Correct."

"And express your interest in purchasing one of their finest wine presses-"

"Indeed."

"But only the frame and screw, with none of the other implements-"

"Yes."

"And no barrels, buckets, or any other winemaking tools-"

"None of those."

"Sent to Casterly Rock, which does not own a single vineyard."

"Precisely."

"Pardon me, Lord Tywin," Maester Gareth asked, "but _why_?"

I clapped a hand on the shoulder of Casterly Rock's middle-aged Maester. He was clearly discomforted by the idea of Tywin being all touchy-feely with someone else, which made it all the better for me. "All in good time, Maester, all in good time. You can thank me later."

I walked away. Thank god that was the last of them. The coppersmith I hired to make the movable type blocks was reasonable, albeit a bit befuddled as to what I could possibly use a bunch of backwards letter stamps for, or why they all had to interlock in the same way. The ink supplier from Tyrosh only cared about whether I'd be paying in Westerosi dragons or Volantene honors, which was nice. But when I tried to start stockpiling paper... all I have to say is fuck the scribe's guild. Two weeks of constant negotiation, compromise, and spilled ale, and they refused to even sell me a single paper-making machine or buy more than a single ream from them at a time. I was just lucky that I found a papermaker from Riverrun who was passing through and was more than willing to work for me. I _was_ planning on subsuming all the guilds into government structures through way of licenses and whatnot, but I'm more than willing to let the scribe's guild crash and burn.

When I arrived at the training 'yard', a rough-hewn room about two-thirds of the way up the Rock, I found Kevan already waiting for me. He'd parked himself on a bench carved into the wall, staring out at the ocean through the wide window. He turned around upon hearing me shut the door, only to stare in bewilderment at me a moment later.

"Um, Tywin... what are you doing?"

I stopped touching my toes and began to hold my arm behind my head. "Um, stretching?" I cracked a smile at the thought of Robert Baratheon thundering to GET THE TYWIN STRETCHER!

"I can see that, but _why_?"

Goddamn, everyone seems to be asking me that today. Maybe I should've flooded the Reynes, at least everyone would then be so terrified of me that they never would question their lord's currently holding one leg to his chest. "I've found that stretching before sparring helps keep me loose. Less sore, too."

"The soreness is because I tended to beat you a lot, brother," Kevan chuckled. "And besides, I doubt an enemy in battle will be honorable enough to wait and let you stretch."

"Mayhaps," I replied, pulling myself up from a lunge-and-twist, "but we aren't in battle right now, are we?"

Kevan drew a blunted sword and entered a fighting stance. "We are now."

I rolled my eyes, drew my own practice sword, and swang it at Kevan.

Kevan and Tywin were both decent swordsmen, despite growing up under a rather non-confrontational father, and both had experienced combat in the Ninepenny Wars. Sure, it was nothing that would win them tourneys against the likes of Barristan the Bold or the White Bull, but they knew their stuff and could certainly hold their own. I knew jack shit about swordfighting, but I thankfully retained a decent amount of Tywin's muscle memory and reflex. They had gotten me through the fight without a scratch, but muscle memory can only get you so far compared to actual experience.

Kevan swang his blade lower than I anticipated, striking me on the left side. "You've gone soft, brother! What is it, love on your mind?"

"Others take you, Kevan," I mock-cursed, before deciding to press the attack.

Tywin's dueling strategy was to use his superior height and reach to help control the fight while also remaining maneuverable, while Kevan tended to favor a more defensive method. We both knew this, considering that Tywin and Kevan had sparred with each other hundreds of times over the course of their lives. Naturally, we soon arrived at an impasse. I could never break Kevan's defense, and he could never never press the attack on me.

However, I did have one advantage: I had taken judo. Sure, it was a whole six months of it back in the fifth grade, and I had the technique of a drunk hobo with Parkinson's, but I still remembered a few of the moves. At least, I think I did. I'm just glad this body is lower on the scale from one to Samwell Tarly than my old one.

When our swords locked again, I decided to put my plan into action. I slipped my left hand off of my sword and showed his right shoulder, while my left leg caught his right ankle. Kevan tumbled to the ground, his sword clattering to the ground. When he looked up again, he found the tip of my sword poking his neck.

After a begrudging "I yield," I leaned over and pulled Kevan to his feet. "You know," he said as he wiped the dust off his doublet, "that you can be a right prick sometimes, right?"

"And I doubt that an enemy in battle will be honorable enough to only use his sword, brother."

"Point taken," Kevan replied with a groan. He returned his sword to the rack and walked out of the practice room, rubbing the sore spot where he landed on his ass. I permitted myself to have a brief chuckle at his expense. Ah, the joys of being an older sibling.

I then noticed that the sun was starting to set, and I remembered that I promised Joanna I'd eat dinner privately with her tonight. I set my practice sword down and hurried to change into some clothes that didn't smell like a gym locker room.


	6. Six: Letters, part two

I paced purposefully towards Tytos's chambers, running over in my mind the myriad ways that this could go wrong, and the slightly less myriad ways that I could resolve it. Tytos says no? I'll guilt him into it. Guilt doesn't work? I'll try flattery. Flattery doesn't work at all? Just emotionally blackmail him until he acquiesces. See? I've got this.

Right before I rounded the corner to his door, I heard the distinct sound of what could only be described as a very, _very_ aggressive breakup. Voices raised, strings of profanities that would make the Hound blush flew through the air, and a glass something - probably a recently-emptied wine bottle - shattered on the other side of the wall. One of the voices, a soft baritone that occasionally crescendoed into a roar, clearly belonged to Tytos. The other, which was higher-pitched and consistently louder, made the Tywin corner simultaneously want to claw my eyes out or throttle its source to death. _The Shrew_.

The Shrew - whose real name was Shella, Shiera, something alliterative - was the most recent and most prominent of Tytos's mistresses. From my vague recollections of this part of the canon, Tytos only really had a couple long-term mistresses, the Shrew being the last one. Wasn't Gerion's nanny one of the others? Now, in the original canon, Tywin made her do a walk of shame out of Lannisport after Tytos died, a thought which caused the Tywin corner to explode with delight. Something about stealing his dead mother's jewelry or another action that would hit his berserk button. Thankfully, it seems she hit Tytos's instead.

I ducked into a nearby room when I heard the door to Tytos's chamber fly open and slam against the wall. "-been more than generous with you so far, so I will give you one last chance! GET. _OUT_!" Damn, Tytos could really project his voice when he needed to.

"You can't make me leave, you overfed cat! You need me, and you _know_ it! I have given you more love in half a year than that dead _whore_ of a wife-"

 _Now_ she's done it.

"GUARDS!" Tytos bellowed, quickly causing two redcloaks to scurry in. "Take this piece of refuse out of my sight and to a place more suitable of her habits! The dungeon shall do nicely."

As the redcloaks marched into his room, I was _reveling_ in the mental imagery of the Shrew, cowering on her knees, blubbering and begging for mercy. "Please, Tytos, you don't have to do this. Please, tell them to go. I can leave myself. I've always been faithful to you, my sweet lion - GET YOUR HANDS OFF ME, YOU BRUTES - please, can we talk? You're being hasty, my dear! Can we just have a moment to-"

"Take her away."

All of the Shrew's arguments were replaced by the sounds of unrestrained wailing as the redcloaks dragged her away. After a minute of waiting for the Tywin corner to come off its karma high, I decided to go and confront Tytos. Maybe he'd be even more suggestible while on his justice high.

I emerged from my hiding place and walked to Tytos's door, rapping on it three times. He opened it a second later, still bearing the self-satisfied smirk of the just. "Tywin, my son!" he boomed, seeming the picture of jollity. "Come in, have a seat. I'm afraid that my wine stocks up here are running quite low. Mayhaps I can send for some?" I glanced surreptitiously at the drops of Arbor Gold still dripping their way down the opposite wall.

"That need not be necessary, father," I replied as I sat in a red velvet armchair, "This shan't be long at all." Tytos sat down on a couch across from me. "May I ask what was going on earlier? I heard an awful racket on my way up."

"Ah, just doing some things I should have done a long time ago. I caught her with one of your mother's pearl necklaces. The one I gave her on the last name-day before Gerion was born. She won't be the first I do this to, and hardly the last. Gods damn Bessa and her tits..."

I had to stifle a chuckle at that. It seems there are two constants in this world: Death (and even then...) and Bobby B memes.

"'Tis good to hear that you seek to improve your life, father. Now, the issue I wanted to ask you about..."

For a brief moment, time seemed to freeze in that room.

"I wish to marry Joanna."

I leaned back in the chair, savoring the moment of silence before launching into the actual argument. "I know that you wanted me and my brothers to marry for love, something which I have always regarded to be one of your more pigheaded ideals. I now wish to apologize for ever letting such a thought cross my mind. I love Joanna Lannister. I have loved her since the day I first set my eyes on her. I held her when she heard that Uncle Jason died in the war, and she held me when mother died. I need her, and she needs me. I wish to be hers, and she wishes to be mine, from this day until our last days. And so, I ask you as both my lord, my father, and her uncle, for your blessing in our marriage."

For a moment, I could see Tytos get a little misty-eyed. "Tywin," he spoke, his voice quavering a bit, "Ever since you came into this world, your mother and I have wanted nothing more than for you to be happy. We may have not always seen eye-to-eye on several things - a great many things, in fact - but I want you to know that I have never wanted to do a single thing with ill intent toward you. If marrying Joanna will make you happy, then you shall marry Joanna. We shall throw a feast in three weeks' time to announce the betrothal, which I hope you will find to be _far_ more acceptable than the one I threw for Genna."

It took every ounce of willpower to not start giggling with delight then and there. "Thank you, father," I blurted out, rising to depart so I could tell Joanna the good news.

As I reached for the door, I heard Tytos stand up. "Tywin..."

I paused and glanced over my shoulder. "Yes, father?"

"About what you said, back in Castamere..."

I turned around to face him.

"...I needed to hear it. For my entire life, I thought that I could win everyone over, or at least placate them, through flattery and favors. Just give them what they want, and they will love me for it. Now I see that I was being foolish. The Reynes, the Tarbecks, every last one of the lords was trying to trick me. Their love for me was a mummer's farce, as mask they wore while they plotted to deprive me of more gold. Although I wished for no blood to be shed, it took a great deal of it for me to realize the truth.

"I will admit that I have not been a good father, and an abysmal one many times. Sometimes, I'm relieved that your mother is not here to see it - she would tan my hide if she did!" He chuckled at the thought. "But I know that I have been a constant source of shame and disappointment for you, for Kevan, for Genna, for everyone in this family. I never meant ill by my actions, but I caused it nonetheless. And I seek to fix it now. No more drunkenness, no more whoring, and _certainly_ no more cowardice. It may not be enough to right every wrong I committed, but I _will_ try as hard as I can. And when the day comes that I go from this world, I hope to do so with my heart at ease, and that you will have been proud to call me father."

He pulled me into a hug, tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. "I love you, son."

I hugged back. "I love you too, father."

* * *

I sat at the high table in Casterly Rock's dining hall, chuckling at the sight of several drunken Crakehall men dancing on a table while slurring along to 'The Bear and the Maiden Fair'. The main course, an excellent selection of delicious slow-roasted beef, was running low, and dozens of small piles of bones dotted the centers of each table. At my insistence, the cooks had served the beef marinating in an odd sauce consisting of of tomato paste, vinegar, honey, and a blend of spices. It proved to be a smash hit with many of the lords, though those with lighter-colored doublets bemoaned how difficult this would be to wash out.

What? I had to start introducing the light of civilization _somehow_ , so I might as well start with something close to my heart. I would've preferred a more versatile Kansas City-style sauce, but it turns out they don't have molasses In Westeros. Maybe somewhere in the Free Cities or the Summer Isles? With my plans for eating Sweet Baby Ray's while sipping a rum swizzle shelved for the time being, I decided to go with a more South Carolinian composition. Now if only I could introduce pulled pork sandwiches...

At least it seemed all the Lannisters were enjoying it, especially Tytos. I said a silent prayer for whichever poor washerwoman would have to be dealing with his doublet.

Tytos was saving the announcement for the dessert course, though everyone in attendance had a pretty good idea of what its contents would be. Most of the conversation, however, seemed to focus on marriage matches for the remaining Lannisters. Most of the bannermen would probably settle for one of Stafford and Joanna's younger siblings, but there were a few of the more ambitious lords seeking to secure a betrothal with one of my brothers. Ser Harys Swyft was trying hard to push one between Kevan and his daughter Dorna. Fuck that shit, I need him to marry some other Lord Paramount's daughter. Maybe I can get her as Joanna's handmaiden to keep her away from Kevan?

My plans at playing compulsory noble matchmaker were interrupted by a page walking up to the high table, bowed deeply at Tytos, and turned around to face the crowds. "My lords and ladies," he declared, "it is my honor to present to you Symon of Durrantown, the greatest singer in all the Stormlands!"

As the applause faded, a lanky, middle-aged man with graying blond hair silently walked up to the page's spot in front of the high table and procured a wood harp. After plucking out a few chords, he began to sing in a haunting, mournful tone:

 _"'And who are you,'_  
The proud lord said,  
'That I must bow so low?  
Only a cat without his claws,  
That's all the truth I know.

 _'My land, my gold, my family keep,_  
They are my ancient right  
And I, my lord, shall never yield  
An inch without a fight!'

 _And so he spoke,_  
And so he spoke,  
That lord of Castamere.  
And now the rains  
Weep o'er the hills,  
Above his castle dear.

 _Yes, now the rains_  
Weep o'er the hills,  
Above his castle dear."

As the last chords of the wood-harp echoed through the hall, the crowd was as silent as the grave.

I couldn't take it. Time to see if these people subscribe to the Josef Stalin School of Not Being Killed by Your Boss.

I stood up out of my seat and started clapping in that slow pace that comes off as either as awestruck or sardonic. Eventually, a lord in the audience began clapping, then another, then more. Soon, the feasting hall reverberated with the applause and cheers of a standing ovation.

Symon of Durrantown took a deep bow toward the audience and then bowed toward the high table. He graciously said "I would like to thank Lady Lannister for her patronage," before sharply turning and walking off the stage.

I turned to Joanna, slackjawed. "You did _not_."

She couldn't help but smirk at the sight of me gaping at her. "I did," she coyly replied.

"That was amazing."

"Glad to hear he was worth the coin."

"I could kiss you right here and now."

"Oh gods, please don't," Tygett muttered two chairs down from me. Gerion pretended to retch in agreement.

I started to lean in, but thankfully for Tygett and disappointingly for me, Tytos chose that moment to stand up and make the announcement.

"Lords, Ladies, men and women of the Westerlands," he boomed, "I thank you for honoring us with your presence. We are gathered here to celebrate not only the memories of the past, but also the hopes of the future.

When I heard of the tragic passing of my brother Jason, I swore to the Father that I would care for his children as if they were my own, from Damon to young Tommen. And so, I hope to honor his memory by bringing the two branches of our noble family together. Thus, in three moons' time, my son Tywin shall wed Jason's daughter Joanna Lannister. To the happy couple!"

Tytos raised his glass, and was joined by a chorus of "Here here"s from the assembled lords, followed by a round of applause as Joanna and I stood up to wave. I tried to maintain a regal composure, but on the inside I was positively beaming.

Dessert was pigeon pie served with lemon cream (Is this a Lannister thing, or do Westerosi nobles just _really_ love pigeon pie?), which Joanna and I devoured with a sense of alacrity. We practically bolted out of the feasting hall at the first opportunity, up the several flights of stairs to her chambers, and began to passionately kiss the moment her door had shut.

I was in love with the woman I was going to marry. Three months from now, I will be hers and she will be mine. _This_ is what happiness is, to know you will spend the rest of your life with the woman you truly love with all your heart.

I reached behind her back, fumbling to start untying the laces that held her bodice. However, she brought her hand down and planted it firmly around my wrist. "Not so fast, love," she whispered sultrily. "Let's save it for our wedding night. Keep it a surprise."

"Oh, how you vex me," I retorted with a chuckle.

"Besides, what if I became pregnant before our wedding?" The playful tone of her voice carried a touch of concern in it.

"What will they do, force us to be wed?" I elicited a small 'heh' for my troubles. "Besides, you could always claim the babe to be a miracle. The Mother blessed you so much that the pregnancy lasted only six months!"

That earned me a few chuckles. "Very well, but only if _you_ be the one to explain it to the Septons and not I. I would rather we shared a bed in a keep and not a cot in a cell."

"Fair enough." I laughed again. "Though speaking of sharing a bed..."

"No."

"Why?"

" _No_."

"We might as well get used to it, we'll have to do it often in the future!"

"Then that means that we can make it up once we're married. Now get out of my room, you dumb ox!" She placed her arms on my torso and began pushing, tittering all the way.

"Oh dear, I've contracted the Grey Plague! My entire body is turning to stone, I can't move!" I cried out in mock terror, planting my feet and resisting her efforts to evict me.

After a few seconds, she relented. " _Fiiiine_ , if you insist."

"Actually, never mind, I think I'll sleep in my own bed tonight." Her face began turning beet red, as if she wasn't sure whether she was going to yell at me or burst out into laughter. "Please don't get angry, you look ugly when you get angry!"

I managed to dodge five of the six pillows she threw at me as I ran for the door, giggling like a madman the entire way.

* * *

 _Thump thump thump_.

Fuck me, what time is it?

 _Thump thump thump_.

It seems there's some sort of thumping noise coming from the direction of my door.

 _Thump thump thump_.

I pulled myself out of bed, made sure that all my nightclothes were still on correctly, and stumbled to the door.

Imagine my surprise when it was Pate the page, a look of urgency written all over his face. "Lord Tywin, it's your father. You need to go to his chambers now."

I'm awake now.

I quickly threw on a doublet and pants before practically sprinting to Tytos's chambers. My mind was racing, stumbling upon every single worst-case scenario it could come up with. Maybe he fell out of bed and cracked his skull? Did he have a heart attack or something? A stroke? Did he contract some disease? An assassin in the night? Did he - _no, he couldn't have_.

I arrived at the door to his chambers, the two guards saluting me as I walked past. Inside, I found Maester Gareth, standing behind Tytos's bed, looking at me solemnly. Tytos himself lay motionless, having been placed there, seeing as he was on top of the sheets. His face was discolored, a splotchy mess of grays and yellows and purples and blacks, but his eyes were closed as if he had simply gone to sleep and decided to never wake up. I grasped at his hands, as if I somehow expected something different; they were a pale gray, and radiated none of the warmth they used to when he embraced me.

I looked at Maester Gareth to receive something, _anything_ that would suggest it was anything but what I feared it was. But he just looked at me, his face forlorn and his eyes reflecting infinite sadness.

That's when I noticed.

Barely, just _barely_ peeking over the brim of Tytos's collar, was a ring of black bruise marks.

I scanned the floor.

A leather belt, its buckle drawn tight but its strap cut hastily by a knife.

The door to the balcony, wide open for one last view of the Sunset Sea.

And beside the door, a wooden chair, kicked over and pushed away.

Oh.

 _Oh._

 _Oh God, what have I done?_

I couldn't take it anymore. I lay my head on the corpse and started crying, long, heaving sobs with tears and snot streaming down my face. There was no end in sight to my grief.

Tytos Lannister was dead. Because of the words I told him. Because I did nothing to stop it. Because I let it happen.

I killed my father.

After what seemed like a short eternity of unrelenting despair, I became vaguely aware of rapidly approaching footsteps behind me. Through the haze of tears, I could vaguely make out the face of Kevan.

I tried to turn away from him and grieve in piece. He placed a hand on my shoulder, I shrugged it off. Couldn't he see I just needed another minute?

After a minute (and several more), I felt that I had sufficiently exhausted my tear reserves to take a breather. I slumped down to the floor, my head leaning against the bottom bedpost. Kevan, though clearly grief-stricken, was able to maintain his composure.

I opened my mouth to say something, a witty retort, a heart-wrenching soliloquy, _something_ to break the deafening silence. All I could muster was the ability to softly squeak out " _He's gone_."

I held my head in my hands as I collected my thoughts.

After a minute, I pulled myself up on wobbling, numb legs, and turned to the Maester. "Maester Gareth... how many of the lords are still here? From the feast?"

"A little less than half of thm remain, my lord."

I was too tired to even bother and correct it to 'fewer'.

"Tell them that my father died of a burst heart."

"But my lo-"

"MY _FATHER! DIED!_ OF A _BURST HEART!_ " I snapped, my mind flaring with rage before decrescendoing back into a dull melancholy.

Somehow, I willed my dead legs to trudge forward, hardly registering the world around me. I didn't remember if the door was open. I didn't remember if anyone saw me in a daze when I passed them in the hall, or if they said anything to me.

What I did remember was the look of shock, followed by immediate understanding, on Joanna's face when I entered her chambers.

I didn't remember much after that, besides more crying, hugging her like a scared child hugs his mom, and mumbling "I killed him, I killed him, I killed him," over and over and over _and over_.

Eventually, I couldn't fight the sheer _exhaustion_ of it all any longer, and I gave in to the pull of sleep.

* * *

When I awoke, I had to be sure that my ordeal wasn't a dream, or that I wasn't still dreaming. So, my grief-addled mind did what it thought was the logical solution: bash my skull against the headboard as hard as I could to see if it moved.

This helped me arrive at two conclusions:

1\. _OW_.

2\. I'm not dreaming.

I was just glad that I was hardly conscious, otherwise I'd have risked far worse injury than a bump on the head.

I glanced down at my body, half-expecting to be greeted with either the sight of me asleep in my dorm or the body of a loathsome insect. However, I was neither, so I forced myself to sit up.

My room was largely the same, except most of the wardrobes were hanging open, their contents stripped bare. Probably being moved into Tytos's chambers. _My_ chambers.

I was now the absolute monarch of a kingdom the size and population of a more respectable Western European nation.

I don't know why, but the magnitude of it didn't seem to hit me. Maybe when I have to actually start passing laws.

Oh shit, Tytos never taught me how to pass laws.

Now motivated by my inexplicable desire to learn the inner workings of Westerosi legislature, I dragged my protesting body out of bed and stood up. The outfit I had hastily thrown over my smallclothes lay discarded in a heap, probably removed by a servant carrying me to bed.

I didn't know whether it was because it was cloudy out, the knowledge of Tytos's death, or the Tywin corner's cynicism, but everything felt like it had a perpetual sense of emptiness, like it was painfully obvious something was missing.

The only thing in the room that that was a recent edition was a small parchment scroll, sealed in black wax. A sinking feeling began to overcome my whole being.

I picked it up, idly running my thumb over the seal of the three headed dragon. Yep, just as I suspected.

Wait, if enough time had passed between father's death to reach the capital and for them to send a reply... _how long was I out_?!

My hand trembling slightly, I broke the seal.

 _Tywin,_

 _It saddens me to hear of your father's passing. I understand that despite your many differences and disagreements, you always strove to be close to him. Even in King's Landing, the sept's bells toll for him._  
 _I would also like to congratulate you on your recent betrothal to Joanna. If she is as excellent as my fondest memories claim, then you are mayhaps the most lucky man alive. I do hope you pass on my regards and my condolences to her, it's been so long since we last saw one another._

 _But that is not why I write to you today. I bring news just as dark as the wings that carry both our messages. His Grace the King has grown weaker over the last several moons' turns, to the point where he feels that he is unfit to continue ruling at his fullest capacity. As such, he has permitted me to serve as regent._  
 _While such a duty may normally fall to the Hand of the King, I have taken liberties to see that Lord Sloane is more receptive to early retirement. The position is now vacant._  
 _Westeros now sits like a lump of clay on a potter's wheel, waiting for the artist's deft Hand to come along and sculpt it. All our ideas, our dreams, our plans to improve the Seven Kingdoms for all are no longer flights of fancy, but within our grasp! It is our duty to seize it while we still can, before copper-counting hoarders are able to steal it for themselves._

 _Come to King's Landing. Bring Joanna, Kevan, all the aides and underlings you need. Serve as my advisor, and when the inevitable happens, as my Hand. And with you at my side, we shall bring the Seven Kingdoms to new heights not seen since the days of Aegon the Conqueror._

 _Loyally,_  
 _Aerys Targaryen_  
 _Prince Regent_

Well fuck me.


	7. Seven: The Art of the Deal

"It hardly even looks like him anymore," I heard Kevan whisper, not daring to truly break the silence in the Sept.

"It's the cheeks, methinks; they're too sunken," I quietly concurred, though I couldn't deny that the Silent Sisters did the best they could with the technology they had access to. They had managed to keep the face mostly shaped like his actual face, at least.

Kevan turned around and silently left, his head bowed reverently, leaving me to be the last one in the Sept. The rest of the funeral's attendees had already left the moment the service ended, and Tytos would lay in state for six more days before being interred. In any other situation, I would've taken the moment to admire the marblework on the high altar to the Father, or to the subtle differences in the alcove shapes for each of the Seven's statues. However, it was just something about the fact that there was a body in the center of the room that made the entire building seem to emanate morbidity. Or maybe because it was Tytos's body lying there. I had the significant fortune of not losing anyone that I had really known in my old life on Earth; every major loss had either been before I was old enough to remember or too distantly-related for me to feel an acute sense of loss. This was different. I had 'known' Tytos for nineteen years, and had lived with him on a daily basis for nearly a month. And now he was gone. Because of my tirade.

But it's not my fault. Joanna keep telling me that, hell, I tell it to myself every day. But I have a hard time believing it. Oddly enough, the only person outside of Joanna to tell me it wasn't my fault was the Tywin corner. Then again, it was because he thought Tytos was a coward and did it to avoid confronting all the problems he created. I've had some pretty stressful internal arguments after I figured out his motive. But hey, I'll take all the support I get, even if it's the "right for the wrong reasons" kind.

The only modicum of external relief was that the Faith of the Seven, despite being Catholicism with the serial numbers filed off, didn't consider suicide to be a mortal sin. I have no clue on whether the afterlife is any more valid here than it is back on Earth, but I hope that it is for his sake. I never really got a clear answer over whether those 'seven heavens' were each a domain for one aspect of the Seven or whether they were tiered _Divine Comedy_ -style. Eh, it's probably in some old official catechism from a thousand years ago.

As I stepped out of the Sept and onto the small lawn, I noticed that the overcast sky was taking a worryingly dark complexion. It was like the entire world had gone with a 'generic movie funeral' color palette today. I hastened to get inside, mostly because if the black in my cloak got wet and started bleeding, it would ruin my doublet.

I made it inside just as the rains began, thank God. It certainly made the walk through the halls seem far more depressing and somber. I caught myself whistling the opening bars to "Mad World". The Gary Jules cover, obviously.

At last, I arrived at Joanna's door. Even though the letter came two days ago, I hadn't told her about it. I needed time to formulate a plan, and now that I had one, I needed her to back me up on it.

I knocked, but the door wasn't closed properly and swung open. I heard her say "Come in," and gladly obliged.

She was packing her clothes. Specifically, she was supervising her handmaidens Rhaella Reyne and Dorna Swyft, who were actually doing all the packing. Keeping Rhaella as a handmaiden would hopefully keep her too occupied to potentially plot the downfall of my house, and Dorna was mainly to keep her separated from Kevan. Marriages with bannermen's daughters were valuable, sure, but that's what cousins are for.

I walked over to Joanna and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. She'd already managed to change out of the black dress and veil she wore at the funeral into some crimson-dyed riding leathers. Hot damn, those things are the yoga pants of Westeros, they leave _nothing_ to the imagination. Let me just say that Joanna is _definitely_ Cersei Lannister's mother.

Then I remembered the letter from Aerys and decided to focus on the matter at hand instead of the matter I wanted my hands on.

"Good morning love," I chimed as she made sure that one of her jewelry boxes was tightly sealed. "Mind explaining to me what the hurry is?"

"I need to ride out by suppertime tonight if I'm to make it to King's Landing within two weeks' time."

What.

I mean, I knew she worked as Queen- Princess Rhaella's handmaiden, but I thought she'd be dismissed from that obligation from the betrothal.

"But what about our betrothal, it's only in three moons' time and-"

"Tywin," she replied softly, putting her hand on my cheek, "I wish that we wouldn't have to go through this, but I must do my duty to Princess Rhaella. The only reason I'm here with you now is because I requested a short leave to visit my family, and I fear I've abused her generosity. I promise that when I see her, I shall request to be dismissed from my position as handmaid within the month so that we may prepare for marriage." A sour look danced across her face. "All this talk of you wedding me, and your father's body isn't even in the ground yet... it just seems so unbecoming."

I sat down on the bed with a sigh, ignoring that I was sitting on the sleeve of one of her dresses. "Don't think I'm trying to offend, sweetling, it's just that this last week just _sucked_ so much!"

I heard Joanna stifle a laugh at what I just said. "Sucked? What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

Shit. Well, I've already introduced barbecue sauce and semi-weekly bathing schedules to this world, might as well get started on the slang. "Think about it. Have you ever heard 'suck' in a positive context? 'He sucks cock'. 'You sucked all the fun out of everything'. 'I sucked every drop of wine out of the bottle to get as drunk as possible'. See?"

We were both chuckling now. "I suppose you're right, Tywin, I guess you _can_ say that this sucks!" Our chuckling turned into raucous laughter. She slumped her back against the bedpost to keep herself upright before she started slowly sliding downwards, which caused me to laugh even harder at the sight.

Eventually, we managed to calm ourselves down and regain our composure (which was no small effort). I stood up and put my hand on her shoulder, trying to seem as 'super serious and wise dispenser of sage advice'-y as I could.

"I received a raven the other day, from Aerys," I admitted, "and he asked me to come to King's Landing. He knows his father has less than a year, so he's asking me to come and start preparing the ground for my inevitable appointment as Hand."

Joanna's face briefly flashed between excitement and confusion at my lack thereof. "But why are you concerned?"

I let out a dramatic sigh before explaining, "Because the realm isn't ready. _I'm_ not ready. How can I be expected to manage seven kingdoms when the one I have now is hardly in order? If I fail due to instability at home, I would seem another toothless lion to the court, and Aerys would find it especially amusing."

Joanna seemed perplexed. "What do you mean by that?" Then I remembered that although Aerys was known for being a bit lascivious, he was far away from being the pyromaniacal murder-rapist he would become in canon. I was still worried that he would try and reinstate prima nocte with Joanna in mind.

"I worry for the future of Aerys's mind. Sure, he was always a bright lad, but I fear that time and toil may not be so kind. The Targaryens have always had a history of madness in their blood, and I fear that the stress of rule might bring it out. It may be tomorrow, a year, twenty... who knows?"

I brought Joanna into a hug. "Stay safe, and stay away from Aerys as much as you can. The fact that he mentioned you by name in his letter concerns me. I fear that upon his seeing you, he may begin to desire you regardless of your feelings toward him."

Her eyes revealed an acute understanding of the implications my response carried.

With a brief peck on the forehead and one last squeeze, I broke our embrace and left the room for her to finish packing.

Normally, I would've been been in full doomsday prepper mode and briefing her on every single possibility, but i decided against it. On one hand, I've probably irreparably fucked up canon so badly that some of the events that I feared most may never come to pass. On the other, I didn't want to risk giving her too much foreknowledge and accidentally fucking up the canon so badly that not even I could hope to navigate it.

I'd much rather deal with a swarm of butterflies than with one Mothra.

* * *

 _Aerys,_

 _I thank you sincerely for your condolences and your offer. However, I am sorry to say that I must reject the appointment for the time being. Both I and the Westerlands are reeling from the unexpected death of my lord father, and I need time to both mourn his passing and restore stability to a land that so desperately needs it. In my absence, I believe that dear Steffon will serve as a most fine and competent Hand._

 _Mayhaps in a year, if - Stranger forbid - His Grace your father passes by then and you ascend to the throne, I shall hopefully be ready to assume the position you so gracefully offered me._

 _Loyally,_

 _Tywin Lannister_

 _Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West_

* * *

The last week had been rather tedious, what with Joanna leaving, overseeing Tytos's entombment ritual, Kevan and I trying desperately to keep everything in order, trying to stop Tygett from nursing an eternal grudge toward me for driving Tytos to suicide, and helping Gerion enjoy his last few days of innocence before the realization that no, dad's not coming back _ever_ hits him like a sledgehammer.

Why yes, I did drink a lot, how did you know?

Naturally, the remaining half-dozen or so lords were beginning to get bored, so I decided to propose a lion hunt. The way that the lords regarded lion hunting was not unlike how middle-aged former high school quarterbacks regarded tailgating at a school they graduated from three decades ago: an excuse for them to get drunk while deluding themselves into thinking they were still young and in their glory days, but really just sit around and watch a bunch of teenagers do all the work. In this case, it was teenage pages guiding packs of hounds, under the watchful eye of a grizzled Ninepenny War veteran named Andros.

"So, Andros, how seems the prey today?" I asked from atop my horse.

"The bloodhounds seem wild as wolves today wit' all the scents they're finding, milord. Today's gonna be a good hunt, I can feel it," Andros growled back. A look of either determination or foreboding crept across his face.

"I hope so," Lord Westerling interjected, "Three days on the plain, and not even a fox to show for it. An empty-handed hunt would hardly be sporting." Shit, what was his first name again? Something with an R? Rollam? Reynard? Robar?

"Hardly indeed, Addam!" Lord Marbrand replied. Shit, not even close.

As the day wore on, it seemed our luck was growing thinner and thinner. The hounds had lost the scent, one of the pages had sprained his ankle, and Lord Banefort continued to whine endlessly about how the Arbor Gold had run dry. Crakehall and Swyft were at each others' throats over some minor ownership dispute over some rock outcropping in bumfuck nowhere. I felt like I wanted to punch a wall. No, I'd hire a contractor team, have a hunting lodge constructed out here, and then punch the walls until nothing but brick dust and rubble rem-

"MILORD, LOOK OUT!"

 **FUCK.**

HolyshitthatwasalionwhatthefuckwhatthefuckwherediditcomefromwhatdoIdothinkthinkthinkthinkthinkthinkthinkthink...

"Release the hounds, Andros!" I yelled, drawing my sword and pointing it at the lion.

It seemed that this lion had taken a particular interest in fucking up my day as much as humanly possible. I had been fortunate enough that my horse reared during the lion's first charge and barely missed, but it was circling back around, staring at me.

I braced my grip, ready to blindly slash at anything that came near me.

I heard the sound of dirt being kicked up as the lion started bolting toward me.

I swear to god, if I manage to die a virgin...

Before the lion could leap toward me, it was knocked to the side by a small pack of hunting hounds. Everyone just stood there, completely entranced by the battle taking place in front of them. Andros even jumped into the fray to protect his dogs, waving his sword around and swinging like a madman. I couldn't help but wince as the lion got a hold of his arm, but Andros used the opportunity to drive his dagger into the beast's eye.

Andros lay on the ground, panting, as he slowly pried the dead lion's jaws open and pulled out the mangled mess formerly known as his right arm. Several of the hounds lay still in pools of either their or the lion's blood, their companions sniffing and whimpering around them.

"Well, my lords, it seems we found our prey," I said with a weak chuckle. "But in all seriousness, we really should bandage Andros's arm and start heading back to the Rock."

* * *

By the time we had ridden back to Casterly Rock, infection had already set in. Andros had to get his hand and most of his arm below the elbow amputated by Maester Gareth. Thankfully, the guy knew to sterilize his tools in boiling water before using them. The moment Andros was able to stand and kneel, I knighted him on the spot and promised him a humble holdfast for him and his family. His only additional request was that when his son turned twelve years old, he'd be squired under one of the more prestigious knights of Casterly Rock, a humble proposition that I found to be perfectly acceptable.

It wasn't until the next day that the realization of what I had just done hit me: I may have very well just created House Clegane. Wasn't the original story that the kennelmaster lost his leg, though? Butterflies, butterflies. Maybe this one will result in Gregor not wanting to rape and pillage everything in sight.

But thankfully, with the last of the other Westerlander lords having departed this morning, I now had valuable time to myself. Time that could be spent putting my plans into action. Consulting my little journal (in which I had transcribed almost every single detail that was tangentially relevant to life in Westeros, from canals to coin reeding), I settled on arranging a meeting with some of the guildmasters. Bringing the guilds closer to the government would not only help to centralize my power and put more of the Westerlands' economy under my control, but also serve as a nice source of revenue on the side. And if any of the lords get indignant that I'm acting like a lowborn copper-counter, I'll just take the opportunity to remind them that my copper-counting is what revealed the full extent of the Reynes' treachery.

But seriously, I should _really_ talk with Maester Gareth about double entry bookkeeping. That shit is gonna save me money big time.

I personally found Lannisport to be quite a fascinating city. Despite the giant mountain fortress looming just to their north, the city had surprisingly little bureaucratic interaction with Casterly Rock; the city walls didn't connect to the Rock's base, it didn't share a harbor, its redcloaks had their own commander, and the Lord Mayor was able to operate relatively inependently. It also had a rather gorgeous architecture scene as well. Most of the buildings had a distinctly Renaissance Italian style to them, down to the bright colors. It felt like the entire city was an overgrown version of one of those Italian fishing villages that you always see on travel sites. And it didn't even smell like shit that much today.

From what Tywin knew about guilds in Westeros, it seemed like their structure was ad hoc and had little in the way of official endorsement besides a few documents acknowledging their existence as a guild. That didn't mean that they weren't formal, or didn't wield influence in major trading cities like Gulltown, Lannisport, or Oldtown. It just meant that every guild had a different leadership structure, which meant that my job of standardizing and centralizing them would be even more difficult. The good news is just about every one of them had a single leader on top of the hierarchy.

At last, I arrived at my intended destination: the Most Honorable Guild of Ore Smelters. Or the Smelters' Guild, if you were too lazy to read off the full name. Their headquarters were a rather spacious manse in a rather well-to-do neighborhood, suggesting plenty about just how wealthy they were. Despite the massive amount of mines that were owned by the various lords of the Westerlands, they were content to sell the ore to independent smelters, who would sell their product to the various smiths, merchants, and other prospective buyers of Lannisport. By bringing the middlemen under my control, I'd have a far easier time convincing the end product suppliers to comply with my demands.

I rapped my knuckles on the door, going into 'stately and serious' mode the moment I heard footsteps approaching. A young page opened the door, temporarily frozen with shock when he realized his liege lord was patiently waiting outside. He bolted without saying a word, leaving the door wide open. I cautiously stepped inside, finding myself in a beautiful foyer with a spiral staircase and marble flooring. Ser Arnaud followed me in, resting his hand on the hilt of a sword in a way that tried to appear casual.

Did I mention that I got a sworn shield? The dude reminds me of that one deleted scene in _Terminator 3_ : built like (and with a surprising semblance to) Arnold Schwarzenegger, but with a rural drawl so thick that it's literally impossible to take him seriously. Eh, I pay him for his ability to use a sword and guard my life, not make small talk with him. Not that it didn't stop me.

"What do you think their game is, Arnaud?"

"Reckon 'e wants to keep us waitin' so we get all desperate-like an' don't do much negotiatin' wit' 'em, ah 'spose."

He may sound like Forrest Gump had Walder Frey dude's character in _Hot Fuzz_ as a language coach, but he's definitely smart where it counts.

After a short eternity, the page returned, pausing a moment to catch his breath. "L-Lord Tywin... _*wheeze*_ you may come this way, milord."

I followed the boy down a hallway to an office with very large (and _very_ expensive) plate glass windows that overlooked a modest garden and a fountain. This was probably a wealthy merchant's sun room at some point in time, before the guild bought it and converted it into an office. The only fixtures in the room were an ornate wooden desk topped with heaps of parchment and a lump of gold ore for a paperweight, two equally baroque chairs, and a small side table in the corner holding two goblets and a carafe of wine.

I gestured for Arnaud to stand outside the door while I took a seat in one of the chairs. More waiting. Oh joy.

Several minutes later, the doors swung open to reveal a somewhat portly, balding man in red velvet robes with a bulbous nose and a forced smile. The guild's rosters listed his name as Master Tywald Orman, and his authority in the guild was undisputed. If I could sway him, the rest of the guild would surely follow. "Oh, Lord Tywin, 'tis truly an honor to meet you in person!" His calloused hands took ahold of my own and pumped it vigorously. "A thousand apologies for the wait, my lord, I wasn't expecting your arrival and was busy cancelling a great many appointments-"

"Cut the platitudes, Master." I shot him my coldest glare. "If I wanted to hear them, I would have asked my father's courtiers. We're both here to discuss business, so let's discuss business."

"Very well, then," he sighed, his jollity deflated. He lumbered behind his desk and reached for the carafe. "Wine, my lord? Arbor Gold, fine vintage."

"No thank you," I replied, "I try not to drink on an empty stomach."

He harrumphed before sitting down at his desk, leaving the wine untouched. "So, Lord Tywin..." Master Tywald leaned forward and steepled his fingers. "What brings you to our fine headquarters today? Surely not to buy gold ingots, no?"

"I wish to legitimize the Smelters' Guild."

A smile crept its way across Tywald's face, but it was soon consumed by a look of confusion. "That sounds wonderful, my lord... but pray tell, what do you mean by 'legitimize'? Are we not already afforded the rights of a guild by law in Lannisport?"

"Sorry if I wasn't clear earlier. I wish to dissolve the Smelters' Guild as an independent organization and absorb its structure into the greater Westerlands bureaucracy, the first of a consortium of similar interests called the Chamber of Craft and Commerce." Upon noticing that his expression was utterly blank, I distilled my sentence into, "I want to make the guild into a new branch of the government."

Tywald's face remained neutral. "But... _why_?"

Shit, time to change gears. "Let me ask you a question, Master Tywald. How many different kinds of tax does the average master guildsman pay every year if he owns his own forge? Four, is it not?"

"'Tis actually five as of this year, my lord. The city levies five dragons every year on all metalworkers and a yearly tax equal to one-twentieth of all processed metal sold, while the Crown demands an additional one-fiftieth yearly tax on sales, as well as a three penny-per-pound tax on any steel sold to anyone outside the Westerlands. And last year, every forge and foundry inside the city walls has to pay one gold dragon a year for their damned 'open flame risk' tax." His face contorted like he had just thrown up in his mouth a little at the mention of the last tax.

"I can tell that you find it most displeasing, Master Tywald, and now I offer you another question: can a government tax itself?"

"Why of course it can't," Tywald replied arrogantly, "All the taxes would simply end up back in their own coffers, it would be pointless."

I paused until a massive grin spread on Tywald's face.

I decided to launch into the pitch for how the system would work. "The secret to the system lies in licensing. If you agree to my proposition, I will sign into law an office directly under the Master of Coin called the Chamber of Crafts and Commerce, which also contains the duties of the harbormaster and tariff collectors. They would be responsible for issuing licenses to any foundry owner who successfully applies for one. Any foundry that operates within ten miles of Lannisport without a license will be immediately shut down. Now, it will still cost money to apply for a license, and a nominal yearly fee to maintain such a license goes without saying, but I am sure both will be far less than the taxes you're paying. I fear I can do little about the crown's taxes, but I shall negotiate in due time with His Grace to see if I can lessen your burden."

Tywald seemed intrigued, but I could tell he hadn't fully bought it. "All this talk of licensing sounds most fascinating, Lord Tywin. But I am concerned that this 'Chamber of Crafts and Commerce' may cause irreparable damage to the status of our profession. If any man with a fat enough purse could buy himself a license, then the word of any smelter in Lannisport would be as cheap as the ink you wish to write it with."

Thankfully, I had already considered this and wasted no time in responding. "I understand the value of maintaining integrity, Master Tywald, which is why the application for a license would also require the presence and approval of two license-holding smelters... or the Master of Craft."

His eyes were entirely focused on me, desperate to devour any information he could get. Hook, line, and sinker.

"If a guild were to come under the authority of a government, would it not be unwise for its former leaders to be cast aside? They shall also need someone who knows the trade to argue their interests before the Master of Crafts and Commerce. There are many qualified master smelters, some of whom I know would make excellent candidates for their profession's Master of Craft..." I gave Tywald a knowing nod.

"And if I were to refuse?" he asked casually.

"I will exclude you and the Smelters' Guild from any and all future offers of the same manner. I'm sure the Smiths' Guild would be far more receptive..."

Tywald seemed to blanche at the very mention of the other guild, and not without good reason. To say that tensions existed between the two groups would be like saying that the Blackfyre Wars were a drawn-out family dispute. Though the Smiths' Guild was near twice the size of the Smelters' Guild, the latter had a near-stranglehold on the shipment of steel through Lannisport, something that the former wanted to control at any cost. Tywin could recall the sight of a dozen smoke plumes arising from the merchants' district a decade ago; a Smelters' Guild master had died of a sudden fever on the same day a Smiths' Guild master fell off his horse, and more riotous members of both guilds accused the other of foul play.

"Very well, I shall accept." Tywald and I both stood up and vigorously shook each other's hands, matching his artificial smile with one of my own.

Shit, I had _completely_ forgotten about how the Smiths' Guild would play into this. By approaching the Smelters first, the Smiths would see this perceived snub as an insult of the highest order, and vice versa. That's when I realized the trick to maintain the Smiths' loyalty would be to present my offer to the Smelters as humiliating and demeaning, while playing off my nearly identical future offer to them as the neatest thing since sliced bread. Of course, I'd have to backtrack if the Smelters ever found out what I told the Smiths... Isn't business negotiation just so much _fun_?

Feeling satisfied, I about-faced and exited the door, Ser Arnaud following me like a 6'4" steel-armored puppy. With that first item off the list, I decided that it would be high time for an impromptu inspection of the Lannisport Redcloak detachment. Sure, I knew not to expect little more than an average city guard, but what I was really looking for were the recruiters and drill sergeants. If they could whip a few dozen desperate orphans and urchins into semi-competent soldiers, imagine what they could do in charge of an actual volunteer army's training course...


	8. Eight: Pressing Forwards

The panel lifted up with a wet _squelch_ as a page scrambled to re-apply ink to its underside. Two more frantically turned the giant crank that powered the contraption, trying as hard as possible to avoid failing in front of their liege lord.

"Tell me, good Septon," I turned to the holy man standing next to me, "How long does it take one of your brothers to transcribe and bind a copy of the Seven-Pointed Star, assuming no illumination or other detail?"

"Probably over one and a half years. Mayhaps no more than four and ten months, if the Septon was rather devoted and experienced in the matter," he hoarsely replied.

"I see. And it would be somewhere in the range of, what, three hundred or so pages?"

"With abbreviations, yes." Jesus, dude, do you need some water or something?

"Now let me show you this." I snapped my fingers and the page came running up, a sheet of paper dangling from his hand.

I took a moment to inspect it. It was the first page of the Book of the Father, detailing the creation of the world, mankind, and the first moral lessons imparted to the Andal people. Like any good ripoff of the Bible, it started with _"In the beginning..."_

I turned and handed it to the Septon, whose eyes practically bugged out of his head once he realized what he was holding. "Sure, it may have taken several hours to set the type blocks and create this first page, but that is only for the first. If one were to start early enough in the day, he could easily produce over a hundred pages by evening. At your estimates, once could produce a hundred copies of the Seven-Pointed Star in less than a year's time." I grinned devilishly at him. "And that's with only one printing press."

"My lord," the Septon stammered, "you certainly have a most valuable tool for spreading the word of the Seven Who are One. But pray tell, how do you intend to use it?"

"You fear for your job, I assume?" I chuckled and put a hand on the flustered holy man's shoulder, silently praying that I wouldn't send him into a coughing fit. "I jest, I jest. I am far from one to be willing to deprive a man of the cloth such as yourself of your livelihood. Rest assured that although House Lannister alone intends to retain sole ownership of all the printing presses, I will be more than happy to only hire Septons for the manufacture of the holy books. You may even retain those skilled in illuminating the manuscripts to sell to higher houses, if you so wish."

I saw the anxiety fade from the Septon's weathered face. "By the Father above, 'tis most reassuring to hear you think so kindly of us, Lord Tywin. The other brothers shall be most grateful to hear of your patronage. The Sept of Lannisport shall not forget of your generosity!" And with that, he gave a bow and giddily hurried off.

So now I've got the Faith's local branch on my side, as well as the smelter's, spicer's, and dockworker's guilds. Once I finish whipping the city guard into shape and coercing the other guilds into joining the licence system, nearly everyone of import in the city will be dependent on Casterly Rock and Casterly Rock alone for their livelihoods.

Funny thing about the city guard. Turns out that although the Redcloaks had previously existed as sort of an honor guard for the Rock, it was canon Tywin who apparently turned them into the pseudo-standing army they were by the time of the books. The first step was to start maximizing their presence outside the Rock, and Lannisport was the first obvious place to put it.

I thought that I could incorporate the Lannisport city guard into their numbers, but it turned out easier to clean them all out and build a hierarchy from scratch. Like many other fixtures of Tytos's court, the Lannisport guard had become bloated with fifth cousins twice removed, minor lordlings' friends, and other moochers who brown-nosed their way into cushy bureaucratic sinecures at the expense of the Rock's coffers. Most of them were wise enough to seek an early retirement after hearing of what happened at Castamere. The clever ones probably got craftier with their theft and managed to fly under my radar, as few as they were. But there were some who were too proud, stubborn, stupid, or some combination of the three to think that their role in the watch was vital and they were completely untouchable.

They certainly learned otherwise when I publicly announced their perfidy and had them all sent to join a very different kind of watch.

Thankfully, there were a few officers who actually possessed something resembling military competence. One in particular, a weathered former hedge knight named Ser Garrison, proved to be more than exceptional. He was a tough-as-nails old sonofabitch who had fought in no fewer than three Blackfyre rebellions, was missing a total of six fingers and toes, and bore an uncanny resemblance to Quint from _Jaws_. I only needed to talk with him for five seconds before deciding that I had found the man I needed.

For starters, we both shared the belief that military rank should be utterly divorced from noble lineage and solely reliant on tactical and strategic competence. If some lord gets upset that his third son is given command of a thousand men's lives over some lowborn merchant's boy, I'll happily remind him that he is free command to his levies how he wishes, and I am free to command mine as I do. Ser Garrison was also rather supportive of the idea that every soldier should be self-sufficient and be able to march twenty miles a day with enough supplies for two weeks in his pack.

The only area where we actually had a serious divergence of opinion was when it came to reserves. I wanted a system where the military would be divided into active soldiers, city guards, and inactive reserves, where the third category would have to report for two weeks of training every six months. Ser Garrison, on the other hand, felt that it would be a waste of resources and that we should be focused on creating a small cadre of elite troops over large masses of semi-trained smallfolk. I conceded on that matter; assuming that canon hasn't been fucked up too horribly yet, there were still at least two decades of peace in store for the Westerlands, so I'd have time to implement it more gradually. At least he liked the idea of soldiers rotating between city guard and active duty to minimize the men's exposure to "corrupting influences".

After a few weeks of brainstorming, we'd managed to create a rough outline of the reformed Redcloaks: our end goal would be four thousand men within five years. Fifteen hundred would be for guard duty (five hundred for the Rock, a thousand for the Lannisport guard), while the remaining twenty-five hundred would be active duty military. A thousand foot soldiers, five hundred archers and crossbowmen, five hundred cavalry, and five hundred auxiliary troops, siege engineers, and other miscellaneous positions. They would be divided into two cohorts, with half of each category of soldiers being split evenly between them. All soldiers, regardless of position and rank, were to be trained in the basics of sword-and-shield, pike, and unarmed combat. For every year of service, they would get a total of six weeks of leave to use when they wish. No exceptions were to be made for farmers needing to harvest, something that I hoped that the recruiters made very clear; I can't risk half of my army up and leaving the moment the temperature starts to drop.

I walked out onto a balcony about halfway up the side of the mountain and looked down on the open field below. Ser Garrison (soon to be Commander Garrison) was leading the first hundred and fifty new recruits through basic drills, which mostly consisted of running laps with burlap sacks full of rocks strapped to their backs. Considering how today was practically cloudless and the Rock blocked most of the wind on the ground level, I could imagine that most of the men were seriously considering suicide as a viable option. But hey, pain is weakness leaving the body and all that.

Still didn't mean that I envied their current status.

* * *

"Come in," I called.

I put down the quill and pushed away the parchment, which was covered in half-finished and scribbled-over charts and tables. I figured that I'd have trouble in recreating some inventions from back home, but I didn't figure that the one to elude me would end up being double-entry bookkeeping. Then again, it might be because my total experience of it was literally a five minute review during the one economics class I took in high school.

I turned around to find Kevan standing in front of me, arms clasped behind his back and a stoic expression on his face. "You sent for me, my lord?"

I smiled reassuringly at him. "Kevan, we're still brothers, you needn't use formalities with me!" He relaxed slightly at it, but he still remained rather uncomfortably tight. Eh, to each his own. "But I didn't call you here to discuss titles, but something more pressing. Tell me, Kevan, have you thought of marriage at all?"

His eyes flickered with surprise for a moment before returning to their previous state. "I can't say I really have, Tywin. Just with all that's been going on, and with father's passing... the thought's never really crossed my mind."

I raised my eyebrow quizzically. "Honestly? Never? Not a single girl you've met who you've had thought of seeking a proposal?"

"Well..." Jackpot. "Dorna Swyft is certainly comely, but I hardly know her. Besides, it would do little good to marry the daughter of one of the lords who manipulated father, even if he did relent and send her as a hostage."

Bingo! I kept a calm veneer, but I was on the verge of giggling with unadulterated glee. I'd managed to divert Kevan's love for Dorna, so hopefully he'd be more open to an outside marriage. I wouldn't have gone through with my plan if he was actually in love with her and wanted to marry. Probably.

"And nobody else?"

"Tywin, is this your way of announcing that you want to arrange a marriage for me?"

Damn, he's sharp. "You know me too well, Kevan."

A triumphant smirk passed across Kevan's face. "Very well, then. Who did you have in mind?"

"I don't follow the affairs of the other Great Houses as much as I should, but they say that Rickard Stark has an unwed cousin."

His eyes widened and he gave me an incredulous look. "And why would Rickard Stark agree to a marriage pact with a lowly Southron house like ourselves?" he asked sarcastically.

After a moment of silent debating, I decided to let Kevan in on as to why, even if I ran the risk of divulging some later canon info. "I know little of Lord Rickard, but what I have heard shows she's a man with lofty Southron ambitions, even willing to grace us poor Andal houses with a marriage alliance." I put a hand on his shoulder. "But be honest with me, Kevan. If I arrange such a marriage for you, do you think you would be truly happy? I would be loathe to put you in the same position as Genna."

"Tywin," he sighed, "I know that whatever you have planned, it will be best for our house. And what's best for our house is best for me. I'm sure that, given enough time, my wife and I can and will come to love one another."

Good to know that Kevan's such a team sport. "Very well, then." I stood up and began organizing papers on the desk. "I'll prepare a list of ongoing projects, taxation issues, and other problems I hope you'll address. And if you hear good news from Maester Gareth concerning sugarcane, a coppersmith, and/or yeast, send me a raven immediately, it is of the utmost-"

Kevan held up a hand and interjected, "Hold on for a moment. Why exactly are you telling me all this now, brother?"

"Well, if I'm to leave and negotiate a marriage contract, I need do so quickly. 'Tis only a matter of time before His Grace passes and Aerys sends me another offer to be Hand, so I'm working on borrowed time. And besides," I grinned wryly, "I need someone who I can trust like family to maintain the Westerlands while I'm away."

Kevan returned my grin.

* * *

"Reckon we're almost in Torrhen's Square, milord," Arnaud announced before popping his head back out of the cabin and slamming the door.

Thank God, I don't know how much longer I could've taken this. I figured that a Northern summer would suck titanic dick, especially when we were close to the Neck, but I didn't think it would be _this_ bad!

I mean, I've experienced the horrors of Wisconsin marshland summers before. Nothing I couldn't handle. But then once you factor in the lack of air conditioning, fans, bug repellent, and deodorant, I quickly started to espouse the virtues of spending all day in my cabin. You've seen one swamp, you've seen them all. At least the bugs started thinning out as we sailed up the Saltspear.

I put down the book I was reading (a short volume called _The Lives of the Great Kings of the North_ , a transcription of an old scroll that I had ordered printed and bound as a gift for Lord Rickard) and ordered the two pages that accompanied me on my journey to start gathering my things. Thankfully, you don't need to pack as many clothes when half of what you're wearing is metal and daily bathing isn't much of a habit. I'm just hoping that they have plenty of warm baths at Winterfell. Maybe they have a steam bath or a sauna of some kind.

I stepped out onto the deck just as the boat began pulling up to the pier. The village seemed absolutely puny, with no more than two dozen poorly-maintained ramshackle stone cottages and a few decrepit barns still appearing inhabitable. There were at least four times as many abandoned houses, stone frames missing the thatch and timber of their roofs. Thankfully, the pier seemed to be in good enough shape, and the boat silently glided up to the shore. It wasn't exactly a dreadnought, but it still dwarfed the meager fishing vessels that never ventured further than the lake.

I was one of the first to disembark, pausing for a moment to make sure that the pages had secured my massive cargo load of one canvas-and-leather trunk. I always try to pack light, and I would probably be staying for no more than a few days. Besides, if any of the Starks asked why I wore the same outfit twice, I could just play it off as being efficient and saving space by reusing clothes. I would hate to cultivate the impression that Lord Rickard was sending off his cousin to wed some extravagant Southron wastrel with the financial acumen of a particularly brain-damaged squirrel.

I turned toward the sound of horses whinnying to see a dozen or so riders by the pier's entrance, most of them wearing steel cuirasses stamped with a running direwolf. Some of them were wearing leather jerkins with patterns of what looked like pine trees sewn into them. Oh joy, the Starks sent a welcoming committee.

I strode off the pier and went toward the man who looked like their leader, a grim man with a creased face and grey eyes that matched most of the hairs on his head. "Lord Tywin, 'tis a pleasure to have you in our kingdom. I don't recall the last time a lion ever rode north, let alone the head of their pride." He half-chuckled at his own joke in the way that only people who think they're witty do, before descending into a courtly bow.

I gave an obligatory half-chuckle that you use when you want to pretend someone's witty and returned the bow cordially. "Good to know I'll always have a place in the North's histories. And to whom do I have the honor of speaking?"

"Benjen Stark, my lord, master-at-arms of Winterfell and uncle to Lord Rickard." God, would it have killed George R.R. Martin to think of more names for the Starks?

A young man - more like a boy, he seemed no older than fourteen - stepped forward and respectfully nodded his head. "Lord Tywin, I am Helman Tallhart and I welcome you to Torrhen's Square on behalf of my father, Lord Beren Tallhart. He would be out here to greet you personally, but he has been quite ill for the past month, my lord. He intends no slight in his absence and hopes that you do not look down upon him for it."

I shot the boy a smile and firmly shook his hand. "Nonsense, Helman. Inform your father that no harm was done and that I appreciate the presence of his son and heir to see my arrival."

"Well," Benjen clapped his hands together, "The daylight won't last forever and none of us are getting any younger, so we'd best ride out. Have your pages saddle your luggage and we can be on the road in under half an hour's turn."

Once seeing that my lone trunk was safely loaded on a pack mule, we mounted the horses Benjen brought along for us and set off away from the pier. As we passed out of the miniscule village and through the rows of stone shells, I turned to Helman to ask what happened.

"Wondering about the abandoned houses, my lord? Many visitors do. When summer comes to a close and the last harvests come in, all the smallfolk who have the means repair the roofs and move into the village for winter. It may not seem like much now, but 'tis a far more impressive sight half a year after the white ravens fly." He then began to explain some of the crop storage and food preparation methods Northern smallfolk use, none of which seemed particularly unique; drying, pickling, smoking, brining if they were near the sea, salting if they could boil the seawater or willing to pay the money for a salt barrel. Apparently the Hill clans further north liked to ferment fish until it had a putrid odor. It seems that no reality is safe from the horrors of surströmming.

After a few good hours of riding, we were nearing where Lord Tallhart's demesne ended and the endless green wall of the Wolfswood began. Helman and his riders bid us well, and they turned back toward their keep. After a cursory check to make sure that we hadn't lost or forgotten anything (or anyone), we set off into the Wolfswood. Despite the overcast sky, the forest was certainly beautiful enough. Light scattered by the green canopy above us danced upon the leaves and soil whenever the wind picked up, the air was alive with the songs of birds, and the trees themselves seemed to exude a sense of serenity. I even saw a few patches of wildflowers growing along the side of the road, persevering despite almost being underfoot.

I turned to Benjen, who had been riding alongside me. From what little information I remembered from that canon dead zone between the Dance of the Dragons and Robert's Rebellion, I distinctly remember Lord Rickard having two twin uncles. "Forgive me if I'm wrong," I inquired, "but do you not have a brother, Benjen?"

His head seemed to hang a bit lower at the mention of the word 'brother'. "Aye, I did. Brandon. One of the toughest bastards I knew, he was. Served with our nuncle Rodrik in Essos as a sellsword for a spell. He died two years prior of a spring fever. Go figure." Benjen chuckled ruefully, and the conversation died once more.

Despite all the time had passed, we were still a week's ride from Winterfell. A week and a half of sailing was bearable, but knowing my luck, whatever could go wrong in the next week would go wrong. We'd probably be attacked by bandits, or the last living direwolf south of the wall, or the Others would return forty years early, or our horses would drop dead from equine dysentery, or-

"Uh, milord? Y'er grippin' yer reins a bit tight 'ere," Arnaud chimed in. Banishing the hypothetical worst case scenarios from my mind, I finally allowed my body to relax. I should have really taken that yoga class back in high school.

The horses remained going at a steady trot, paying no heed to the world around us as they plodded forward through the dirt. Even when the road turned to mud in patches, we suffered no significant loss in speed, something for which I was silently grateful. I was just glad that nobody else was coming along in a carriage, or God forbid, a wheelhouse. Yeah, if I have a daughter, I'll instill in her a love of horseback riding so strong it'll make every single crazy horse girl I knew in middle school look positively normal by comparison.

Or maybe I could just build some better roads. Yeah, that would work.


	9. Nine: In the Wolf's Den

If I said that Winterfell was the most impressive thing I'd seen, I'd be a dirty liar. Don't get me wrong, it's still massive by Earth standards, and maybe I'm spoiled by the impossible miracle of architecture that I live in, but comparing Winterfell to Casterly Rock would be like unironically claiming that Five Guys is better than wagyu beef from a five-star restaurant. It's still great, but you've got at least a couple orders of magnitude between them. All the buildings were a mottled granite grey with austere facades, the largest tower could have been no more than a hundred and fifty, maybe two hundred feet high, and everything looked like it had last been scraped clean of moss and dead leaves when Aegon the Conqueror was still alive.

Of course, what Winterfell lacked in grandeur it made up for in sheer _style_. The place seemed to exude coziness. You could probably walk into any building and expect a roaring hearth, a dry blanket, and a warm mug of cider. And if you were lucky, Old Nan would be there to tell you a story of the Age of Heroes and tuck you in for the night. You could tell a lot about a person if you saw that they lived in Casterly Rock: they were powerful, commanding, wealthy beyond their wildest dreams, but you couldn't say for certain that they were happy. With Winterfell, you only needed to take one glance to know that it had played host to happy families for thousands of years.

We rode through the inner set of gates into the courtyard, and that feeling of comfort washed over me like walking into a warm building in a rainstorm. It was like a great burden had been lifted off my shoulders and I could finally and truly relax. The ground was mostly dirt and mud interspersed with a few cobbles, but compared to some of the roads we were on, it might as well have been an 8-lane highway. It was abuzz with activity and a sense of energy; smiths hammered away at their forges, stable-boys groomed the horses, off-duty guardsmen chatted idly, a wagon laden with grains and salted meats saw its contents loaded into a winter cellar, and two boys wrapped in boiled leather sparred in a far corner with blunted swords.

We dismounted with a pleasantly surprising synchronicity and were presented with a platter of bread and salt for guest right, a small army of pages swarmed over to lead our horses to the stables. Taking care to not step in the occasional pile of manure, we weaved our way through the hustle and bustle of the yard and into the waiting warmth of Winterfell's guest apartments. One of the servants, a jovial little woman with grey hair bound in a bun, led me to my room on the top floor, using every silent moment to fill the air with histories and trivia about which lord stayed in that room, or where that chair used to be, or how Brandon the Builder once had hot water piped to the very top floors of the First Keep. While most lords would probably smack her and tell her to shut her trap for daring violate the traditional silence between servant and master, I never for a moment dreamed of doing such a thing; I was just too enraptured to care.

As we went up the what was probably the third flight of stairs or so, the topic of the conversation shifted to herself and her family. "Just this past week, milord, my grandson's wife gave birth to a strapping young babe. Named him Walder, they did. A strong name for a strong boy. And his lungs certainly are! I was washing Lady Stark's robes on the other side of the castle and I could hear him as if he were next to me! And Maester Walys said that in all his years in Winterfell and down south training for his silver link, he had never seen a babe so large! My grandson Wyllis - the boy's uncle, you know - japed that perhaps his goodsister had lain with a giant! I wished I was there just so I could have smacked him upside the head for his manners! The nerve of boys these days..." I paused a moment when I realized that I had just heard Hodor's origin story. Old Nan - or is it Almost-Retirement-Age Nan right now? - turned around when she noticed I had stopped and chided, "Your chambers are still another flight up, milord! I swear, all these Southrons' brains freeze the moment they get a breath of fresh winter air..."

Probably-still-a-few-years-out-from-collecting-social-security Nan finally led me to my room, opening the door with a slight flourish and beckoning me inside. Although the walls were unadorned stone and the furniture unpainted wood, the room was still decorated heavily. A tapestry covered the wall every several feet, and almost all of the floor space was invisible beneath a sea of brown and grey furs. The only areas more sparsely decorated were those around the roaring hearth and the bathtub, already filled with steaming water straight from Winterfell's hot springs. God, this would feel so nice.

I unbuckled and peeled off my riding leathers, and finally my smallclothes. Turns out that no matter what universe I'm in, cotton is still excellent at retaining both heat and moisture. At least I didn't have _too_ much humidity leak into my trunk as we traveled up the Neck. And at long last, I gingerly sank into the warm tub, feeling all the stress (and the grime of the road) wash away.

There are only about three of the simple things in life that Tywin and I would both agree are absolutely necessary to maintain one's sanity: a good night's sleep, a well-cooked steak (as in cooked by a good chef and _not_ well-done, do you take me for a heathen?), and a warm soothing bath. You just sort of float in there, not really doing anything, just _being_. Pure bliss.

You know, that's one of the few things that I truly miss about my old life, the near-complete lack of anything resembling downtime. You're expected to be up at dawn and ready to go, spend all day balancing books or planning strategy or holding court or whatever, occasionally stop for a meal, and keep going until it's well and truly dark out. Maybe that's why everyone was played by an older actor in the show, they're all aged up from the constant stress of noble life. Heh.

I glanced out one of the thick glass windows, seeing a warped image of the Broken Tower. God, I'd have to father a really special kind of idiot if Jaime and Cersei saw the same thing I'm seeing (but probably even worse) and thought, "You know what? Let's fuck at the top of that thing." I mean, Cersei and Jaime probably won't be born, considering how badly I butchered canon. Maybe. Hopefully.

I leaned back and closed my eyes, just taking the opportunity for a quick moment of shuteye before I had to...

* * *

I pulled myself out of bed, throwing off the comforter and dragging myself into a vaguely upright position, straining to see the alarm clock. Jesus, I can hardly stay awake, I knew I shouldn't have spent last night staying up and shitpost-

 **8:47**

 _ **FUCK**_ _._

I shot out of bed, possessed by the burning desire to not be late to physics class- _again_. Change underwear, put on socks, jeans jeans jeans jeans jeans, what t-shirt should I wear? Fuck it, it's been awhile since I wore the shitty Nirvana one from Target, it'll do. Backpack, grab laptop, phone, wallet, charger. Physics notebook? Physics notebook.

Where's Tim? Eh, probably had an early class or something.

No time for breakfast? Hello, granola bar, my old friend. Diet Coke for good measure. I'll eat on the walk over. Almost- wait, jacket. No jacket? Sweatshirt.

Okay, what time is it now?

 **8:51**

Shit. Whatever, I can make the walk in less than ten minutes. Probably. Out the door, down the hall, left, door, stairs, door, lounge-

Wait, where is everybody?

I mean, usually it's just the janitor, or maybe Nick's out here eating his daily bagel, but there's nobody. TV's not even on.

Wait, is today even a Monday?

Why isn't my phone-

 _FUUUUUUUUCK_ , I forgot to charge it last night. Fuck it, I'll charge it in the library after class.

Out the door, up those three stairs, out the other door, left and-

Okay, this is weird. There's usually, like, at least one other person on this quad in the morning. This shit's just getting straight up bizarre.

I turned to walk toward the physics hall, and I almost ran smack-dab into an oak branch. That's weird, I could've sworn that big-ass white tree was a lot less big-ass and white yesterday.

Perched atop the branch was a crow, cawing out whatever shit crows want to talk about at this ungodly hour. It paused for a moment and tilted its beak down, trying to get a better view of me with the eye on top of its head.

 _What the..._

* * *

 _...fuck?!_

I almost shot out of the bathtub, considering how quickly I woke up and returned to an upright position. The water had become tepid and the same cloudy grey as the dust on the Kingsroad. If I waited any longer, the bards would be singing about how Tywin Lannsicle froze to death in a hot bath.

But seriously, _what the fuck_ was that? Is it because I'm in the North? Is Bloodraven aware of the whole mind-switching thing? Is he just as confused as I am?

Wait a minute...

Does this mean Tywin is a warg?!

I bolted out of my bathtub and over to the window. Through the coke-bottle glass window, I could make out the shape of what was most likely a robin perched on the sill. I stared at it with all my might, concentrating all of my brain on its own. I could almost _feel_ it, my mind entering and overwhelming its pitiful little pea-sized avian brain. Soon, I would close my eyes, and see through new ones! Yes, any moment now...

...and nothing.

Shoot.

That's what I get for getting my hopes up.

I was too busy mourning my dashed hopes of being a psychic Doctor Doolittle to even notice the door unlatching.

"Milord, are you alright..."

I have learned that there are three absolutes in Westeros:

Murphy's Law does not make exceptions for you. If you think it is, it's really just biding its time to fuck you over harder than you ever imagined.

The Ironborn shall never make any significant cultural achievements.

Pate will always find the worst time possible to walk into the room.

" _WHAT?!_ " I thundered, about-facing to make eye contact with Pate, letting my stare bore into him with the laser-guided precision that Tywin Lannister spent the last nineteen years perfecting. Hands on my hips, legs slightly spread apart in one of those "dominant power stances" you'd learn from a hack at some business convention, and my eyes shining with the heat of a thousand jars of wildfire, I probably looked straight out of an uncomfortably Freudian nightmare.

Pate let out a mortified _eep_ before hastily slamming and latching the door, followed soon after by the scurry of small feet trying to distance themselves from the situation as much as possible.

But hey, what do you expect? If you're constantly barging into your liege lord's private rooms unannounced, you're bound to walk in on him naked at some point in time. It's a pretty obvious job hazard, if you ask me.

Not wishing to cause poor Pate any more mental trauma, I quickly dried off and threw on my clothes. In preparation for the trip north, I had already selected a doublet for the first meeting, a lovely high-necked one made of crimson velvet with a small lion embroidered over the left breast. Sure, it felt like I was wearing a polo shirt, but it had a nice subtle charm to it.

Shortly after I had finished dressing, Pate regained the courage to come to my room. Thankfully, it seemed that the trauma had managed to impose on him the necessity of knocking. So you _can_ teach an young page new tricks.

"Lord Rickard is ready to speak with you now, milord," he stammered, trying desperately to minimize eye contact with me, before turning around and leading me back through the hallways and down the winding stairs. Privacy-related issues aside, Pate seemed to have gotten a surprisingly good sense of direction in the unfamiliar castle. Either that, or he just asked seriously-considering-signing-up-for-AARP-soon Nan for directions.

I soon found myself trudging back across another corner of the main courtyard, now far more sparsely populated than when I arrived. The only ones who hadn't seemed to move were the guardsmen, but nearly everyone else had cleared out, smiths, children, and sparring swordsmen alike. The sun had just dipped beneath the crenellations of the inner walls, making the drying mud look like some sort of pockmarked alien hellscape. For some reason, I kept thinking of Kurt Vonnegut's description of Dresden after it was firebombed - _the surface of the moon_ , he kept saying. At least the surface of the moon wouldn't ruin my boots.

We came to a stop in front of the doors to Winterfell's great hall, two guardsmen in drab grey cloaks pushing the oaken doors for me to walk though. I always made sure to pay special attention to the doors in all the keeps; you could tell a lot from it. The doors to Winterfell's hall were simply unpainted ironwood, held together by steel bands and nails, adorned by eight thousand years' worth of scratches and handprints. There even seemed to be an indent of where guards had pressed their hands to open it for millennia. It was here that Pate left me, scurrying back to make sure that my entire entourage of one trunk was even more unpacked.

The inside of the hall was nearly devoid of people, save for the occasional guardsman and three people at the end of the hall. As I neared it, I recognized Brandon standing on the dais, a man with a striking resemblance to him sitting on a stone throne, and a visibly pregnant woman in a fur-lined cloak sitting in a chair beside him.

I stopped at the foot of the dais and bowed down enough to indicate respect, but not enough to indicate inferiority of rank. "Lord Rickard, 'tis an honor for you to host me."

Lord Rickard returned my bow with a nod of the head, his smile bordering the gap between confidence and smugness. "And you grace Winterfell with your presence, Lord Tywin. And let me offer my condolences to hear of the passing of your father."

"My dearest thanks, Lord Rickard." I gestured toward the woman. "And you are the Lady Lyarra, I assume?"I genuflected to kiss her hand. "I shall pray to the Old Gods and the New for good fortune with your pregnancy, and that the babe make a strong heir for a strong house."

"Many thanks, Lord Tywin," she replied demurely. Seems like the wolf's blood trait skipped her entirely.

Making sure not to leave Lord Rickard's uncle out, I turned to Brandon and gave an informal bow. "I believe we have little need for introduction, Lord Brandon."

He returned the bow with a chuckle, "Likewise, Lord Tywin."

With the banalities and formalities out of the way, everyone refocused their attention back on Lord Rickard. "Let us not mince words, Lord Tywin; you have come here for a marriage."

Ah, the Starks. All the subtlety and bluntness of a sledgehammer. Gotta love it. "That I am, Lord Rickard. I seek to unite our houses through the marriage of my brother Kevan and your goodsister Branda."

Lord Rickard steepled his finger and nodded. "Seems you are one for short words as well, Lord Tywin." He stood up from the throne, his right hand unconsciously petting the head of the stone direwolf on its armrest. "Come, walk with me."

We soon found ourselves walking through a rather nondescript hallway, its only fixtures being candelabras and equally nondescript wooden doors. Curiously, I brushed my hand against one of the stones. It felt as warm as if it were shining in the sun all day. God, what I'd do for something resembling actual HVAC in Westeros...

After a short walk up the stairs, we arrived at what seemed to be Lord Rickard's solar. The room was empty save for the two of us, but somehow it felt like the coziest place on the planet. A fire was roaring in the hearth, and there were two cushioned chairs calling our names.

After we had settled in quite nicely, Lord Rickard turned to me, his face stone cold serious. "What do you want?"

"I beg your pardon, my lord?"

"I've met precious few Southrons that have been willing to travel all the way to Winterfell unprovoked, let alone a Lord Paramount. And every time, you always seem to expect some grand favor out of it, like what you had done was some insurmountable task and we should compensate you dearly for the great honor of hosting you or whatever shite you want. At the very least, you expect to use the visit to strike some grand bargain as you Andals always do. So I will ask again," Rickard's eyes stared at me with an intensity that even I had to acknowledge was pretty intimidating, "What. Do. You. Want."

"An alliance between our houses, nothing more."

"Bollocks," Rickard interjected, "Since you refuse to answer, I guess I'll simply have to guess. Do you wish to take my dear cousin down south, wed her to some pimple-faced sprog you hardly consider to be your kin, and press a claim on my kingdom when I die? Hold her as a hostage so I agree to some diabolical pact in the future? Tout her around to all your Andal friends and claim that you successfully tamed and civilized a savage First Man? _What is it_?" Dayum, this guy can really work himself up.

"To strengthen your house as well."

The look of silent rage in Rickard's steely eyes was soon overwhelmed by confusion. I'd probably completely disrupted his tirade with that little doozy. Now I just have to keep going before he starts building up momentum.

"You and I aren't so different, Lord Rickard. Both of us young lords, thrust into power, eager to prove ourselves in this game of thrones despite our setbacks. I have to compensate for a father that was tragically born without a spine; you, for a kingdom that the others see as, well, irrelevant. They sneer at you, mocking laughter hidden behind pleasant jokes and banal platitudes. I look at you, I see the scion of a house that has stood strong for eight thousand years, conquered a kingdom that was unrivalled in size until the appearance of the dragonlords, and defended it with blood and iron. They look at you, they see a savage that declared himself king of a wasteland and thought himself equal to the _true_ lords, like a child waving a wooden sword and proclaiming himself Aemon the Dragonknight, or a motley mummer's troupe who believe their own farce.

"But you want to prove them wrong. I see it in your eyes, that drive, that vaulting ambition, that unadulterated _will to succeed_. You _will_ make the North a player in this great game and earn their respect, whether it be through honeyed words or steel on the battlefield. You know that it won't be easy, that you'll have to pry every single victory from their claws, but you _will_ get it one way or another. And you know that allies down south to help you with it. _That_ is what I'm offering you."

Rickard smiled and let out a chuckle, like a man who hoped he would get called out. "Ha! I heard that you could stare into men's souls and read their heart's desires, Lord Tywin, but I never would have believed why they say that until now!" The smile faded slightly. "But my earlier point still stands. This offer would benefit my house most greatly, 'tis true, but I can't see myself receiving so much good without you still demanding something in return. You're still a Southron at heart, same as the rest of them. Name your price, and I'll judge it worthy or not."

"Besides the usual dowry, all I ask is that you fulfill the obligations of a defensive alliance when the time to do so arrives. House Lannister will not enjoy peace forever, and I hope that we would have at least some ally to turn to when the drums of war start beating."

He nodded in understanding. "You speak of the Ironborn?"

"Mayhaps. The Ironborn are the most likely threat, but there is also the Reach, the Riverlands," his expression soured slightly at their mention - was he considering them for a potential marriage alliance even now? "The Stormlords, or even - Gods forbid - the Crown itself." It's never too early to start sowing the seeds of dissent against Aerys, seeing as to how even I probably wouldn't be able to fully stem his madness in the long run.

"Very well, then." Rickard sighed, taking a moment to lean back in his chair. Here we were, two young men in the prime of our lives, yet we're sitting around fireplace debating the futures of our families like the wise patriarchs we tell ourselves we are. "But before we go any further, let us discuss the kinsman of yours you plan to wed to my dear Branda. What was his name again? I'm afraid I can't recall."

"My brother Kevan, Lord Rickard. Seven-and-ten years old, proven in battle to be skilled at both sword and strategy, and with a good mind for administration. If you are concerned about his fidelity, let me assure you that he is loyal to a fault toward our house and everyone in it. He makes a point to obey any order without question if he believes it to be for the good of our house, including any orders to wed. Likewise, I trust him enough as my brother to let him serve as Lord of Casterly Rock in my stead until my return from the North. You have no cause to fear for your goodsister's safety with him."

Rickard smiled wryly. "Very well, then. He sounds like a fine match for any woman. But now that we've discussed the bridegroom, let us discuss the bride." He turned in the direction of the door and said, "Come in!"

A man walked in at Rickard's behest that I recognized as one of the fighters sparring in the courtyard earlier, still bedecked in leather-and-plate and his head covered with a steel greathelm. When he pulled it off, however, a great cascade of raven-black hair tumbled out and over his - or rather her - shoulders. One look at her grey eyes and I had no doubt who it was.

She certainly wasn't harsh on the eyes. Tall - an inch or so shorter than me, but probably a bit taller than Kevan - and lithe, with both a certain sinewy strength and a feminine elegance. Kinda reminds me of how I imagined Dacey Mormont to look in the books. Part of me was rather relieved; I have nothing against Brienne of Tarth, but marrying a similarly awkward and unfeminine woman would be shooting yourself in the foot in the eyes of the other lords. It sucks that politics here revolves around a giant middle school popularity contest, but so it goes.

"Lady Branda," Rickard and I rose out of our seat and I gave the lady a slight bow, "An honor to make your acquaintance."

"Likewise, my lord," she replied. Blunt and taciturn? She's gonna get along _excellently_ with Kevan.

After a moment of the two of us awkwardly standing there, she asked, "What's wrong, Lord Tywin, does the sight of a noble lass in armor offend your Southron sensibilities?"

Quick-witted and sharp-tongued? I certainly wouldn't mind having her around in court.

I permitted myself a chuckle. "No, my lady, I'm just concerned that you'll track mud from the courtyard on your lord cousin's carpet."

She returned my jape with a short, barking laugh. "Ha! I like this one, Rickard!"

I turned to look at Rickard. "I don't mean to pry, but ' _this_ one'?"

"Out of her suitors," Rickard clarified. "No more than two moons ago, we hosted a brother of Lord Rogers of Amberly, far down in the Stormlands, seeking Branda's hand in marriage. We found him to be... quite lacking."

"What my dear cousin means is that he called us savages and said our food was shite."

"How charming," I quipped. "I can't speak of your cooking yet, but the hospitality I've received has been nothing but excellent. And speaking of cooking, I am absolutely famished. Do we plan to dine here in your solar or in the hall?"

Rickard gave an incredulous look and chuckled. "You think I would demean a visiting Lord Paramount by hosting him in my _solar_? Come, supper is nearly ready!"

* * *

God bless you, George R. R. Martin.

Seriously, the food was to die for. I was usually a picky eater (I prefer _selective consumer_ , thank you very much) back on Earth, but it seems my recent bodily shift has really opened up my palate. And hoo boy, I'm _glad_ it did.

The first course was a delicious steak-and-mushroom stew that seemed to exude the very definition of comfort food, served on a trencher (obviously). The main course was an entire suckling pig, spiced, salt-cured, and roasted until almost charred. It frankly reminded me of one of those old Brazilian steakhouses, and I silently wished that they had some of those amazing cheese rolls and caramelized bananas. I almost had half a mind to negotiate whichever of Winterfell's cooks prepared it to come down to Casterly Rock as part of the dowry. Of course, if Lord Rickard enjoyed it as much as I did, he'd be rather recalcitrant to part with them.

The dessert course was an array of sweet, thin oat-cakes layered with a thick cream that reminded me of buttercream icing and drizzled with honey. Altogether, it sort of reminded me of an actually reputable version of a Little Debbie oatmeal cream pie. And then I realized that my rather generous serving (as all the other lords' were) was probably equivalent to five or so regular oatmeal cream pies. But then again, my diet for the last week consisted of nothing but hardtack, jerky, and roasted hare, so I think I deserve a cheat day. But let me just say I can now totally see why there were so many fat middle-aged lords in Westeros.

As the last plates of the dessert were cleared away by the serving-girls, Lord Rickard stood up, hoisting a goblet in the air. "People and guests of Winterfell! I would like to propose a toast! Not only to the health and prosperity of House Lannister, but to announce the joyous union between our two houses by marriage! In three moons' time, I shall wed my cousin Branda to Ser Kevan, the brother of Lord Tywin! May the Gods Old and New grant them health and happiness!"

A rousing chorus of 'Here, here's echoed up to the cavernous rafters above. I glanced up for a moment and realized that compared to all the other castles I've seen, the Winterfell dining hall is probably the one that looks most like the Great Hall of Hogwarts. If the walls were a more yellowish grey and had some magically floating candles, it would be utterly indistinguishable from the movie set. They even had four long tables running the hall's length crammed with people.

Finally, the feast started to die down in earnest. The nearby lords who were at court who were in their cups started staggering back to their chambers (one even had to be carried out by a page), while a group of other bannermen and servants of lower birth decided to take the remaining party outside. When the doors closed, all the Starks present seemed significantly relieved.

"'Tis a trick we have to pull when the guardsmen get too in their cups to be ordered about," Rickard explained with a smirk. "Half an hour's turn in the cold nighttime air works well enough at dispelling the mood for revelry."

With the hall nearly to ourselves, Rickard and I were content to hash out the preliminary terms of the marriage. He was rather relieved when he heard the small size of the cash dowry I wanted; Casterly Rock practically has all the money this family would need for five dozen generations and earns more every day, so a dowry would be a drop in the bucket regardless. He was a bit more hesitant about parting with the cook, but he negotiated it down to having every recipe in the Winterfell kitchens transcribed and bound, along a list of sources for their herbs and spices.

The only point of contention was where the wedding would take place; it was customary for the ceremony to take place at the holdfast of the bride's family, but the Southrons would probably object over the lack of a Sept. Eventually, it was agreed (in exchange for knocking off even more of the dowry), the wedding would occur in Casterly Rock's godswood before repeating their vows in the Sept, an order of events that Rickard was _very_ insistent upon. Branda's uncle Brandon (try saying _that_ three times fast) would accompany her down to Casterly Rock in three months for the ceremony.

Everything was finally coming together. Now all I needed to do was take care of the last unaccounted-for Lannister sibling...


	10. Ten: Be Very A-Frey-ed

"What was she like?"

"Pardon?"

"Branda, my betrothed. I assume that you _did_ secure the betrothal, seeing how you're not plotting to murder every Stark you can find."

He knows me too well. "If you're worried about your future bride, dear brother, you should have no serious cause for alarm. What was she like? Physically, you will hardly find her lacking in either beauty or strength. Mentally? The only thing sharper than her mind or her tongue is probably her sword."

I heard Kevan sigh. "Oh joy. No whores in my future then."

"Unless you intend to join the Unsullied, of course."

Kevan rolled his eyes. "My brother, the comic."

"I prefer the term 'humorosophist', thank you very much," I responded with a chuckle. Say what you will about Kevan, but at least he has a sense of humor.

"How long until our betrothal ends?"

"Three moons' time." There's that magic number again. Why is it always three months before weddings? Travel time? Tradition? Hell if I know.

An emotionally neutral "Hmm" was my only reply.

I stood up and walked over to a decanter, pouring myself a glass of Arbor Gold. Sure, I was drinking probably around five glasses of wine a day, but fuck it. If it's good enough for Queen Elizabeth, it's good enough for me. I'll definitely need it by tonight.

"You've something else on your mind, I can tell it." I forgot how good Kevan was at picking up my secrets, especially considering how I was less stoic than the Tywin he grew up with.

"You know me too well," I replied, sitting across from it.

"Out with it, then."

I sighed. "I - _we_ \- need to find a way to get Genna out of that thrice-damned marriage."

"Aye." A forlorn look drew itself across Kevan's face as he leaned back and sighed in return. "I'm surprised you didn't gut poor Emmon Frey the night of the betrothal. Or father, for that matter."

I mustered a weak chuckle. "Sometimes, I wish I had. It would certainly have made life easier in some regards."

"True."

We sat in silence in father's- _my_ solar, the only sounds being the rushing of the wind past an open window.

"Must Emmon die?"

I sighed. "He must, Kevan, there's no other way to get Gen back. If we try to secure an annulment, the old weasel will probably make Emmon bed her the moment he finds out about it. Assuming he hasn't made him do it already, of course. Besides, Walder Frey is a prideful man, and the best way to make a foe of him is to make your slights against him public for all the other lords to see."

Kevan nodded with understanding. "I see," he replied, "but who is to say we can get away with it? With the Reynes, we could argue we were upholding the King's justice, but to murder a lord's son in cold blood leaves too many ways for it to go wrong."

"Plausible deniability, Kevan, plausible deniability." I stood up and started pacing about my chair. "It matters not whether half the lords in the Seven Kingdoms think we had a hand in the death of Emmon Frey. Hells, it matters not if they even _know_ we were behind it. We only need to say two small, simple words: _prove it_."

Kevan stood up and started pacing too. Is it a Lannister thing, or is he just copying me? "'Tis all well and good, brother, but there are still too many chances for this to turn around and bite us. What if Frey takes offense to this and petitions his liege – or Heavens forbid, the King – for redress? More ambitious and powerful men have hanged for less."

"Fear not, Kevan, even if Lord Walder does demand redress, nothing will come of this. Hoster Tully has little love for the den of weasels, he would only do the minimum amount of help required for him to save face. Aerys is Prince Regent, so any demands to the Crown on Walder's part would be fruitless. And even then, most of the other lords would side with us out of pure spite! The scion of a house that ruled since the Dawn Age rescuing his sister the fair maiden from the clutches of the demanding upstarts who have only been lords for six hundred years? Not even the bards could write something so poetic!"

Kevan barked out a laugh. "Fair enough, Tywin. The only thing I fear is how Gen would react. I think that any lady would take the news that her own brothers murdered her lord husband in cold blood rather poorly."

"Ah, but Kevan, you make one fatal mistake:" I pointed a finger up for emphasis. "This is not _any_ lord husband, but Emmon Frey, Lord of the Nebbishes!"

"Lord of the Nebbishes? I thought he was the Chinless Wonder!" Kevan's chuckles had turned into full-on laughter.

I soon found myself laughing just as hard as him. "I heard that he loses a hair every time his father beds a maid!"

Our laughter soon turned to hearty guffaws, leaving us winded as we collapsed back into our chairs. I genuinely appreciated that moment of pure mirth; it helped take my mind off the rather grim subject matter that we were discussing both before and afterwards.

The next hour was spent hashing out the details of our plot to murder Emmon Frey. His Patheticness was staying at the Twins for a season with his betrothed, and they would return to Casterly Rock in six months or so for the actual wedding. We couldn't wait for them to return- neither of us were fond of potentially being caught and breaking guest right under our own roof, and the longer our scheme ran, the more opportunities for Walder to find out and rush the marriage ahead. So, Emmon had to die sooner rather than later.

Our alibi would be that I was traveling to White Harbor on important trade matters, and I would stay in the Twins on my way North. I would partake in Lord Walder's hospitality while I was there, which would inevitably include some sort of hunt. My retainers would provide a distraction, Emmon would suffer a tragic fall, and I would liberate Genna from the Twins under the cover of night before anyone figures out what's going on.

There's no way this could go wrong, right?

* * *

I wasn't relieved to be at the Twins. I was relieved that I was at a castle, while simultaneously disappointed that said castle happened to be the Twins. The distance from Seagard to the Frey's holdfast was further than Castamere to the Rock, so this was probably the longest I'd spent in the saddle in both my lives. Then again, I would trade all the saddle sores, numb legs, and bug bites in the world for a different destination.

The Twins didn't seem like a necessarily _bad_ castle, just… tacky. Everything about it felt like it was designed by a lord who tried to make his castle seem as grand and powerful as his ancient forbearers, and failed miserably at the task. Windows with ornate pediments that seemed like they were designed by a stonemason who had heard of Casterly Rock's from hearsay, crenellations that were equally imposing and impractical, and turrets jutted out of the two keeps like they had never heard of balance and symmetry. I was wondering what seemed so particularly terrible about it, but then it hit me: it was a medieval McMansion.

As we came out of the light woods surrounding the road, we could at last see the western bank of the Green Fork river valley unimpeded. The sun was just beginning its descent, painting the hills and fields of wheat a rich orange. It was like a Hudson River School painting come to life, vibrant colors and all. I would have to see about getting a room high up in the Twins, seeing how it would be the only place my view wouldn't be obstructed by it.

I was dragged out of my gawking by the sound of hoofprints. Leading the approaching party was a man of around thirty with a face that, if not for his hooked nose, weak chin, and already-receding hairline, would be considered fairly handsome. However, it all combined to make him look more like a mangy owl… or a weasel.

"Ah, Ser Stevron," I called out jovially, "a pleasure to make your acquaintance!"

He came to a stop, bowing his head graciously. "Likewise, Lord Tywin. My father has been eagerly anticipating your arrival at the Twins."

I stretched my smile as far as I could without breaking the illusion of enjoyment. "Very well, then, let us be off!"

As we trotted up to the gate, I leaned over to Arnaud and whispered, "What do you think of them?"

"Ah don' like it a wee bit, milord. Truth be told, the Freys seem they're up to summin' more than we are, an' it scares the shite outta me."

"Me too, Arnaud, me too."

Compared to the gaudy façade, the inner courtyard of the Twins' west tower seemed rather drab. Blank stone walls, unpaved dirt paths, and the occasional unadorned window were the only notable aspects. Only a few servants stocking larders seemed to be anything of note.

"Pardon, Ser Stevron, but where is everyone?" I asked.

"My apologies, Lord Tywin!" he chuckled. "My father prefers to call court for important guests in the East Keep's great hall, 'tis the older of the two and more suited for regal accommodations. Your quarters are in the Water Tower, right there." He pointed to the small tower in the middle of the bridge, visible between the bars of the portcullis. "We can ride across the bridge, or would you rather walk?"

"I may be a bit weary from my travels, Ser Stevron, but I'd be even more so if we walked. Let us ride on!" And so we continued through the second portcullis and onto the bridge itself.

The bridge was mildly interesting from my perspective, which meant it was utterly pathetic to someone who only knew Westerosi architecture. A bit narrower than a four-lane road, cobblestone surface, and a knee wall with little crenellations shaped like miniature twin towers along both sides. The sun was setting further now, and the two towers' long shadows crept their way across the fields. When our little entourage got to the Water Tower, two of the pages peeled away and dismounted to unload my luggage and make sure the quarters were sufficiently ready for my arrival, i.e., sweep it for hidden passages, secret compartments, false doors, and anything else a spy or assassin might use to eavesdrop or enter unseen. Call it paranoia if you like, but Westeros isn't a place where the trusting types survive very long.

The eastern tower's courtyard was identical in structure to the western one, but it was certainly more inhabited. It was swarming with people, common and (dubiously) noble alike. A few vaguely weaselly-looking children scampered out of the way as our horses came to a halt, and were eventually led away by some pages (one of whom did look rather weaselly), while we walked into the jackals' den known as Walder Frey's court.

I had expected the inside of the Twins' court to continue the trend that its outside did, but the interior proved itself to be comparatively sparse. The walls and floor were plain stone, decorated with the occasional rug or tapestry, and all the furniture was unpainted wood. I glanced up and saw a ring of balconies around the throne room, and I couldn't help but hum the first bars of _The Rains of Castamere_.

Lord Walder's ever-growing brood lined the walls. A few of them seemed fairly normal, while some of them made me feel like I had just wandered into a McPoyle family reunion. One of them in particular had a listless look in his eyes, occasionally giggling at nothing in particular. That one's probably Jinglebell. No sign of the wives, though.

At the end of the hall, upon an oaken throne carved in the shape of his castle, sat the man himself. He looked just like David Bradley from the show at age fifty, which only made me wonder how he'd look in another forty years and another forty grandkids. His wife (which one was this, third? Fourth?) stood next to him, visibly pregnant.

I bowed low enough to indicate respect but not enough to indicate subservience. "Lord Walder."

"Ah, Lord Tywin, you grace my house with your presence!" he replied, his face somewhere between a smile and a sneer. "But first, let us partake in the old traditions of guest right."

He waved his hand, and a servant brought forth a platter with bread and salt. Despite knowing that Lord Walder paid as much heed to it as he did to family planning, I still ate the bread. Wouldn't want to give him any more reasons to hate me.

"I thank you for this sign of your hospitality, Lord Walder," I replied.

"Yes, yes," he said, with a wave of his hand. "No self-respecting house even as low as the humble House Frey would ever let themselves forget the importance of guest right."

Okay, George, stop fucking with me.

"Of course, I would presume nothing less. House Lannister may punish those who disrespect it, but it does not forget those who treat it worthily." Might as well stoke his ego a bit.

The majority of the remaining conversation was an introduction of his ten sons (with an eleventh on the way) and his eldest son Stevron's own children. I wasn't really sure what to do with Jinglebell, so I just sort of patted him on the head. Probably the nicest thing anyone's done for him in the last week.

I excused myself to get to my quarters, ostensibly to wash up and prepare for dinner. Not that I wasn't going to wash up – I had dust in places I didn't know dust could go – but I needed to be as far away from potential eavesdroppers as possible so I could meet with the real target of my stay.

The walk halfway across the bridge to the Water Tower certainly feels a lot longer on foot than on a horse, but I got to enjoy the view more. It's honestly kind of surprising that nobody else built a bridge at another major point along the Green Fork, especially considering how much money you'd make with an "I'm not a Frey" pitch. Maybe have a temporary pontoon bridge out of river barges lashed together?

The Water Tower was fairly tame compared to either main keep at the Twins, lacking any random turrets, twin-castle-shaped crenellations, or grotesques on the corners. Instead, it looked like a long box dotted with arrow slits and topped off with a slightly larger box. However, this also meant that the spiral staircase inside was devoid of any sort of decoration, and I found that heading up it was quite monotonous. Step, turn a bit to the right, step, turn a bit to the right, step, turn a bit to the right…

When I got to my room, I trudged over to the bed (which had posts carved to resemble the Twins, no surprise) and plopped face-down on the bed. After a few minutes of vegging, I'd wash my face, change my outfit, and then wait for Genna to arrive. Speaking of which, how long until-

"If _this_ is how you treat your family, I'd hate to see how you treat your guests at court."

I immediately sprang up and turned around. Genna was leaning on the back wall by the door, reveling in the feeling of going unnoticed by her older brother. She was wearing a roughspun brown dress with a white apron, and her hair was up in a bun beneath a sackcloth cap. If nobody looked too closely, she could've passed through the castle as a maid unnoticed, and nobody really questions a maid traveling on foot between the two towers.

"It's good to see you, Gen." I stood up and put my arms around her, and she returned it – though not as eagerly as a brother-sister reunion would entail. From what I remembered from the books, Tywin and Genna had a fairly rocky relationship, mostly due to Tywin's… _thorough_ methods of dealing with his enemies. Even the Tywin corner felt a little awkward hugging her like this.

After a couple seconds, Genna pulled herself out of the hug. "Let's not mince words, Tywin. You came to get me out of here, didn't you? Here, hide these in your bags when you leave." She reached into a laundry basket sitting on the floor and pulled out several jingling cloth bags. "Some gold I've saved up from an allowance, along with my jewelry. Don't want the old weasel giving these to his fifth wife when I'm out of here."

Good to see that Genna's on the same page as me, at least. "So, did you and Emmon ever… you know?"

Genna's look could only be described as one of utter disgust. "Me? And _Emmon_? Gods, you must hold me in lower esteem than I thought. Relax, Tywin. I took care to never be alone in the same room as him, and I made sure to never even be in the Sept when he was; stops the old bastard from claiming we eloped before our official date out of sheer love or whatever."

"And something tells me Emmon is hardly the kind to initiate, anyways."

"His father, however, is a _far_ different story. Always trying to get us alone together, encouraging us to share a room, constantly talking about his adventures with his latest wife to 'know what we can look forward to.' Ugh, I never want to break my fast with sausage again."

"As much as I love talking about Walder Frey's sex life," I replied, "we should probably focus on why you came here in the first place. Tomorrow, I've arranged for myself to go on a hunt with the Frey boys. I want you to gather some necessities - a set of good riding leathers, a cloak, and a dagger just in case – and make your way down to the quay beneath the west keep by dusk. I'll slip away from them in the woods, meet you, and we can go from there."

Genna nodded along, but paused at the end, a look of confusion creeping along her face. "Why the quay? Your hunt is on the west bank of the Green Fork, no? Then why not just pick me up and we can ride homefrom there?"

Clever girl. "When we make our escape, the first place the Freys will assume we go is back toward Casterly Rock. If we cross the bank, it can buy us some more time. My plan is to stick to my original plan of riding for White Harbor – I _do_ want to negotiate some new tariffs with Manderly traders – while I send you back to the Rock on the first ship I see."

"Well then, older brother," she grinned, "you'd best rest up a bit. All that plotting must have tired you out."

"Very well, I'll see you at supper." I leaned in and gave Genna a hug before she departed. She returned it, hugging a little tighter than last time.

* * *

Ah, nature. The wind rustling through the leaves, the patches of afternoon sunlight dancing along the forest floor, the crunching of dry leaves beneath my horse's hooves, it was always something that could always help me feel at peace, in my body or Tywin's. It was like a symphony playing out all around me.

And like someone whose phone rang in the middle of the symphony, the Frey brothers were always lurking behind me to ruin the mood. I was currently burdened with five of them – Stevron, Emmon, Aenys, Jared, and Stevron's eldest son Ryman – and each of them seemed to annoy me in their own way. Stevron was fairly nice, but had the habit of interrupting everyone else when he wanted to say something. Emmon's voice was high and nasally. Aenys would pull pranks on Jared when nobody was watching. Jared would loudly whine and then threaten Aenys to a fight before settling down. Ryman stank.

It's okay, just breathe in, breathe out. Try to ignore it…

"Ow! Stevron, Aenys jabbed me with an arrow!"

"I have no clue what you mean, Jared, I was all the way over here!"

Just ignore it, _just ignore it_ …

"Apologize or I'll… I'll jab _you_ with an arrow!"

"I'd like to see you try, you little worm- let go of my reins!"

 _JUST IGNORE IT. **JUST IGNORE IT-**_

Thankfully, one of my pages ran up not a moment too late. "Milords, the hounds picked up the scent of deer, a small herd of them! I fear they scattered when they heard us approach, unfortunately."

As the only landed lord and guest of honor, the Freys looked to me as the hunting party's _de facto_ leader, a role which I eagerly took up. "What luck on our first day! Very well, then," I replied, "we should split up and fan out to have a better chance of finding them. Stevron and Ryman, you keep along the path. Aenys and Jared, you follow that creek to the right. Emmon and myself shall go to the left. We can each find our way back to camp, so we should return by nightfall at the latest."

The rest of the hunting party acquiesced (though with some grumbling from Jared), and we all split off and went our separate ways, each of us led by a page – of course, the one from my retinue made sure to be our guide. It took about a few hours on horseback until I felt that we were in a good enough spot. If my back-of-the-parchment cartography was correct, we had essentially looped around and were heading back to the Twins while still remaining a ways off the path we took heading out this morning.

"Uh, Tywin," Emmon squeaked, "are you sure this is the right way? These woods hardly seem familiar to me, and I oft hunted here."

"Trust me, Emmon, we are close to a successful hunt yet." I then started loudly whistling the opening bars to 'The Maple Leaf Forever' to see if it would garner a reaction from him. However, he hardly even looked in my direction, silencing my fears that I would end up killing any dimensionally-displaced Canadians.

At last, we were at the location I had planned. The small creek beside us had grown into a wide, rocky stream that would eventually feed into the Green Fork. It was all still on Frey lands, and there weren't any smallfolk villages closer than half a day's ride. More importantly, it was where Arnaud was waiting.

The instructions I gave him were simple enough: sneak out of camp in the morning, walk south until you find a stream, than follow it upstream until you hear the sound of horses, leave a signal, hide, and wait. If all went well, we should be crossing paths soon.

And so, we rode in silence for several more minutes, as I surreptitiously scouted the terrain for a sign that Arnaud had passed through. At last, I saw something: a small scrap of blue cloth knotted around a piece of driftwood stuck in the mud. Shortly after, I stopped my horse in front of Emmon and turned to confront him.

"Emmon," I said with a mix of formality and steeliness, "I should be honest with you. There is an issue of most pressing importance that I feel I should discuss with you."

"Is this about your sister, Lord Tywin? I intend to wait until our wedding night, I swear! I haven't laid a hand on her!"

I permitted myself a chuckle, trying not to look in the direction of some rustling bushes. "Fear not, Emmon, This is about dear Genna, though I'm hardly concerned with that. This is more with the… _political_ ramifications of your marriage."

"If you think that I'll press my children's claims on Casterly Rock, I would never _dream_ of such a thing! I would never act against my betrothed's family like that!"

"This is not about that either, Emmon." Just a little closer, Arnaud… "My objection is not about claims or politics, but rather the fact that my sister's betrothed is _you_. I'm sorry that you won't have the opportunity to think about what comes next, but I hope you'll understand. It's nothing personal, it's just another move in the game."

Emmon opened his mouth to say something, but all that came out was a startled yelp when Arnaud pulled him off his horse. One hand wrapped around Emmon's throat, the other covered his mouth. As the Frey kicked and struggled, Arnaud briefly scanned the ground. A foot away was a rock about a foot wide that tapered at the top into a blunt point. With the speed and precision of a chef cracking an egg, Arnaud dropped down and brought the back of Emmon's skull down on the point of the rock. A sickening _crack_ was heard, Emmon's movements degenerated into small shudders, and then he stopped moving at all.

I tried my best to avoid staring at the body once known as Emmon Frey as Arnaud washed the blood and bits of brain from his hands in the stream. It was over. A necessary casualty of the game of thrones.

Guilty conscience or not, the plan still had to go on. I turned to the page and told him, "Take Emmon's horse, ride for Seaguard, sell it, and use the money to buy passage back to Casterly Rock. Arnaud, you ride with me; we have a boat to catch."

* * *

The sun was dipping below the horizon when the Twins came into sight. Before we passed out of the tree line, we dismounted, unloaded the saddlebags, and sent the horse running off into the woods before sneaking along the riverbank to the quay. At this time, the long shadows over the Green Fork would make it harder for us to be noticed.

The quay was deserted, with the exception of a lone cloaked figure. I crept up behind them and whispered, "Which direction did your bedroom windows face?"

"I know it's you, you oaf." Yep, that's Genna alright.

We operated in complete silence after that. A small rowboat, only a bit wider than a canoe, sat under a tarp, waiting to be used. Arnaud and I (mostly Arnaud, though) picked it up and lowered it into the water as quietly as possible.

"Now remember, Arnaud: don't row until the Twins are out of sight, then row like the Seven Hells for the eastern bank."

Arnaud nodded curtly before gingerly climbing in the boat, followed by Genna and myself. With only a gentle push, we were silently drifting and bobbing down the waters of the Green Fork.

For what seemed like an eternity, the three of us sat perfectly still, as if the slightest movement would alert the Freys and send a hail of flaming arrows down upon us. It was only really once the Twins were out of sight and we were standing on the eastern bank that we started cheering. We were free.

As we had hoped, several pages were waiting with horses for us. High in spirits, we eagerly saddled up and tried to put as much distance between us and the Green Fork as possible. Next stop, White Harbor.


End file.
